


All for one

by Adrenalineshots, Jackfan2



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 5 Times, Awkwardness, Clothes thieves, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Fever, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Humor, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Innuendo, Medical Inaccuracies, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Misunderstandings, Not What It Looks Like, Nudity, Platonic Cuddling, Season 1, Subterfuge, Subtext, The Musketeers Big Bang 2016, Worried Musketeers, all tied up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-08-31 10:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 51,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8574553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackfan2/pseuds/Jackfan2
Summary: Five 'short' stories —ok, maybe not so short— about bondage. Well, not Bondage exactly, but there's tied up Musketeers. Well, actually, most of the times it’s Aramis that ends up in ropes. But, sometimes, he actually enjoys it. Other times? Not so much.





	1. For Honor

**Author's Note:**

> What an adventure this was for the both of us! Like kids in a candy store, we decided to try a little bit of everything that looked tasty. So, in here, you'll find a bit of drama, a bit of love, bravery, pain, humor, family, longing, anger, deceit and even a bit of sexiness because, well... you know... tasty!
> 
> THANK YOU!  
> \-- to the Mods over at the Big Bang Musketeer Livejournal community. Excellent work and a great experience. Appreciate you for letting each of us contribute individually and collectively, even as that was somewhat against the rules.
> 
> \-- While she's loathe to let me toot her horn, a HUGE thanks to Natty (Adrenalineshots), my co-author and artist extraordinaire, for diving in on the art. The work is amazing (Natty: a matter of opinion, of course, but truly very fun to play with as all 3 pieces are very strong images that we both had for these stories) and I truly think you’ll enjoy her visual contribution to the story. I would add to have a drool-cloth handy for one story/art combo in particular. ;)
> 
> \-- Our Betas: We owe a massive thank you to our team of betas (yes, you read right, TEAM... because we're _that ___problematic): Laura, aka Laurie_Bug and Sue, aka SuePokorny. You're were both beyond awesome, ladies! And this wouldn't have been possible at all without your precious contributions. Thank you!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis is missing. Athos, d'Artagnan and Porthos hurry to search, only to find him injured and alone. While their friend struggles with the effects of his injures, his brothers remain by his side, each one seeking to piece together the events that led Aramis to his predicament. The more they discover, however, the more they realize that things aren't always as they appear.

"Found him!"

Porthos' shout was all that Athos and d'Artagnan wished to hear, even if the implication it carried left a bitter taste in their mouths. Now that the search for Aramis was finally over, it was time to deal with the reason he'd been missing from morning muster and face reality. Their friend was surely hurt… or worse.

As one, the two Musketeers turned and ran to the alley where Porthos had disappeared earlier. The narrow passage was littered with wood crates and refuse but given his built, they spied the larger man quickly. It wasn't until they reached his side that they noticed the familiar figure lying still on the cold stone floor directly in front of Porthos.

"Does he live?"

Ever the pragmatist of the four, only Athos could give voice to the words that had been plaguing their minds ever since their search had begun. He moved with bleak determination to where Porthos knelt, navigating around his bulk to see for himself.

Porthos, seemingly unwilling to break his contact with Aramis' face, was using his teeth to frantically pull off the leather glove covering his free hand. Once his fingers were bare, he laid a gentle touch against the side of their friend's neck, searching and praying. "His heart still beats," he announced, even if the smile that should've followed those words was sorely missing. "He's burning up," the large Musketeer added grimly.

D'Artagnan knelt and noticed the reddish puddle that had gathered underneath Aramis. "Blood," he announced. Searching his friend's body, he could see no obvious sign of injury on Aramis' chest or arms. "Help me turn him a bit."

Athos moved to assist and they folded Aramis over to get a better look at his back. Porthos remained as he was, seemingly incapable of removing his hand from Aramis' neck, fearful that any break in contact would make that fluttering pulse go away.

The wound quickly revealed itself. Burned powder had left a tattered gash in the leather of his doublet' right side, the scorched edges allowing view of a deep gouge in his flesh where the ball had grazed flesh.

"Cowards!" Porthos hissed, realizing that whoever had done this vile act had done so in the most treacherous of ways.

"When I find the bastard who did this..." he growled through clenched teeth, the promise of violence hanging in the air.

Athos looked around, noticing the crowd that was starting to gather at the end of the alley, gawking at the gory sight. "His quarters are not far from here," he announced. "Perhaps it would be best for us to take him there?"

D'Artagnan looked around in confusion. He was still getting acquainted with the enormity that was Paris and its many streets, slowly learning his way around. He hadn't realized that they were that close to the garrison. "His quarters?"

"Aramis keeps a room by the Seine," Porthos explained with a fleeting grin. "For the ladies, he says," he added, pulling the wounded man closer as Aramis started to shiver.

As one, the three Musketeers lifted their companion from the cold ground, Athos and d'Artagnan each carrying a leg while Porthos cradled his friend's upper body and head against his chest. Aramis barely stirred, even though the motion had to be excruciating for him.

 

 

D'Artagnan ran a hand through his hair, despair overwhelming any hope he'd retained since finding Aramis alive. Chewing anxiously on one nail, his teeth grinding at the tip like the worry that ate at his gut. He cursed himself for having ever wished for an end to both the stillness and the dead silence Aramis had maintained ever since they'd found him, for his wish had been abundantly granted.

"NO! Plee—ease!" Aramis moaned. Sweat coated his torso, his face, and plastered strands of hair to his brow. He was deep in the throes of yet another horrid nightmare, in a series of apparently ever flowing ghostly visions. "Leave her...Giselle!"

The litany of passionate pleas and screams had hollowed out Aramis' voice, leaving it little more than a hoarse rasp, worn down by the length of his despair. It had started a few hours after heir arrival and hadn't stopped since. They were little more than fractured words, little pieces of events that those listening had no way of telling if they were real or figments of his fevered imagination.

Although the wound had long since been cleaned and bandaged, the long hours of searching had rendered them too late in stopping it from festering. In truth, the severity of Aramis' condition left it likely that the marksman's health had been dire long before any of them had even considered his absence a problem.

How wrong they had been…

The putrid tissue brought on a fever. Aramis' skin burned so hot that Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan had been forced to relieve him of his leathers and outer layers, leaving him only in his braes to preserve some modesty. As if it mattered much. They'd rather lay him bare and listen to his complaints later, if that was what it took to get him healthy. Better a live Aramis than this, hollowed out harbinger of death…

Athos felt Aramis brow sometime later and sighed. "Damn…"

"What…?" d'Artagnan sat up, alert and concerned.

"I _had_ hoped that by removing his clothing, the chill in the room would combat the rising fever but," Athos withdrew his hand and stood upright. "I should have known, for all his stubbornness, Aramis would attract an equally stubborn illness."

"Then we need to be equal to the task," Porthos said determinedly. He looked around the room then at the foot of the bed before picking up the sheet crumpled at the foot. "Perhaps if we use some linens, soak them in cold water and drape them over him?"

"It is worth a try," Athos nodded.

Yet, for all their efforts, fate was nothing if not determined to dash their hopes at every turn. The cooled linens seemed impenetrable to the fire that seemed intent on consuming Aramis, body and soul. The fever was so high that it had begun to addle his brain, turning his dark thoughts to turmoil and his confused actions to chaos.

Sometime later, well after midnight, Aramis sat up, moved his legs around to rise from the bed. The actions had been so composed and limber that it took d'Artagnan a second to realize his friend was not in completely himself. His eyes were glazed with heat and he kept listing to his left side, right arm flapping uselessly on his lap.

"Aramis?" he called gently, gathering the attention of the other two men. "Do you know where you are?"

The marksman looked at him, scowling at the apparent stupidity of the question. "Of course. Don't you?" he'd sputtered, patting the wet linens. "There, there, Fidget, we'll be on our way soon," he said, talking to his imaginary horse. "Now move aside, I'm in a hurry!"

It hadn't been easy to convince Aramis that his horse was actually made of cloth and that he was in no fit condition to go anywhere, riding imaginary horses or otherwise.

 

 

"His feet…" Porthos ground out, struggling to hold Aramis' arms to the straw mattress. "Grab his damn feet!"

This was the fourth time they'd been forced to hold Aramis down in order to keep him from leaving. Still in the midst of memories ravaging his mind and soul, the marksman was inconsolable, desperate to save his fallen comrades. Once Marsac had been mentioned, recognition of this particular haunting struck home.

"I'm trying"—d'Artagnan narrowly ducked a knee to the chin—"but this isn't easy." He made another grab for the offending limb and finally bore it under his weight to hold it down.

Athos knelt on the other side of the bed, bucking against Aramis other leg. He already sported a black eye, though none of them had escaped unscathed to Aramis feverish hostility. Porthos had a missing tooth where he'd been head-butted, and Athos a swollen, split lip.

"Much as it pains me to suggest it," Athos 'oofed' as the same leg he'd wrestled earlier came up to bump harshly into his ribcage. "I think we should tie him down."

Porthos nodded quickly. "Question is, how do we go about that without one of us letting him go?"

"We don't. We'll just have to regain the upper hand. He's weak as a kitten—"

"Could've fooled me…" D'Artagnan huffed.

"Two of us," Athos continued, "should be able to subdue him long enough for one of us to search for bindings and return." He looked at d'Artagnan and nodded. "Move quickly."

 

 

Sometime later and seated at a table, nursing their wounds and worrying themselves sick, Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan watched over their friend, feeling more like jailers than brothers. While they no longer had to worry about him attempting to leave the confines of his bed, Aramis continued to thrash, yell and shift restlessly on the bed, the bindings barely keeping him in place.

While d'Artagnan had not been acquainted with Aramis for long, it wasn't an easy sight for any of them, him included. Aramis looked so lost and distressed, tense and oft times he pulled at the bindings as if Satan himself had taken up residence in his soul.

Their friend, usually so full of life and passion, was now reduced to a quivering mess of shivers and sweat. Aramis continued to fight his demons, muttering incoherent words one moment, vengeance the next, before breaking down and begging for mercy. It was never for himself, but always in the name of some lady that none of them were acquainted with or had even heard of before.

As far as their best knowledge went, Aramis' latest professed love was solemnly for Adele Bessette, the Cardinal's mistress and, while he'd certainly earned the reputation of being an incorrigible womanizer, it wasn't like him to keep more than one lover at a time. So the mention of another woman was… confusing.

"His pistol's not been used, but the rapier's dirty," Porthos said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled around Aramis' moans and mumbles. He held the weapon high, showing the rusty stain at the tip of the blade. "Bloody."

"That's not like him," d'Artagnan pointed out. "Aramis always keeps his weapons clean. Overly so, if you ask me."

"Maybe he had no time to clean it," Athos pointed out, picking up the pistol from the table. The elaborate handle had been commissioned by Aramis himself, saying that it reminded him of the vineyards of his home. "Where's the other one?"

"There's another?" d'Artagnan asked, trying to remember how many pistols the marksman usually carried on his person.

"It wasn't on 'im," Porthos stated, thinking back to the place where they'd found their friend. They had left nothing on the ground other than Aramis' blood.

"A robbery perhaps?" Athos suggested with a raised brow. It would explain the missing pistol and the bloodied rapier.

The sound of jingling coins filled the air. "His coin purse's right here," Porthos pointed out. "Jealous husband? The Cardinal?" he suggested instead.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "He was left alive, for what it's worth," he noted. "Wouldn't such foes finish the job?"

Porthos nodded grimly. "The pup's right..." He turned his head and gazed at Aramis. "What were you doin' last night, my friend?" The last they'd known, Aramis had excused himself from their company to visit a church nearby, but that had been before the sun set the previous day.

"Giselle..." Aramis whispered, frowning as if the name pained him.

"A duel?" D'Artagnan suggested.

Porthos nodded. "It would certainly explain the blood on the rapier. And," he added with a grim smile, "it certainly wouldn't be the first time any of us would get involved in such activity, illegal as it may be."

Athos shook his head, unconvinced. "But why would he duel anyone without seconds? Without telling us?"

"His wound was made by a pistol, yet his was unfired," d'Artagnan pointed out.

"The one we have, yeah," Porthos agreed. "And whoever shot him, did it from behind, like a bloody coward," he reminded, hands closing into fists. "A dead man, that's guaranteed," he vowed.

Athos set the pistol back on the table and reclaimed his seat by Aramis' side, refreshing a piece of linen in the bucket of water on the floor before replacing it on the marksman's forehead. "First he needs to regain his strength," he said, "then we can see about taking revenge for what was done to him."

"Or what he might have done to others," an older but familiar voice broke in. They turned to see Treville standing by the door. "What happened? How bad is he?"

"Captain!" d'Artagnan replied, resisting the urge to hide the weapons on the table. "You know where Aramis lives?" he asked with a frown. It would seem that he was the only one unaware of the Musketeer's lodgings outside the garrison.

"Pistol shot wound to the back," Porthos explained as he moved to follow Treville.

"It only grazed him," Athos continued, "but he's been struggling with a fever since we found him..." The swordsman stepped back to allow their Captain room to move closer and see for himself.

Aramis' shouts had died out to mere whispers, words that only the marksman could understand escaping his lips. The lull allowed Athos to focus on Treville and what he said upon entering.

"What do you mean by ' _others_ '?" Athos asked the Captain.

The Captain of the Musketeers sat on the bed, a look of compassion on his face as he took in the poor condition of his best marksman. "Why is he tied down?" he asked, ignoring Athos' question.

"Kept tryin' to get up, he did," Porthos explained. "What others?"

"Has he mentioned what happened?" the Captain asked, looking around the room. "Anything at all?"

D'Artagnan exchanged a glance with Athos and Porthos. None of them missed the fact that Treville kept avoiding a direct answer to what seemed a simple question.

"Sir," Athos voiced, drawing the captain's attention. "What _happened_? Do you know who did this to Aramis?"

Treville sighed, casting one last look at Aramis before rising to his feet. "I was summoned to the palace a few hours ago," he began. "The King was most distraught. One of His Majesty's cousins, the Vicomte de Turenne, was murdered last night. He was brought to his home, mortally wounded. Died in his bed, according to his grieving niece," he said, looking at each of the men standing around him. "You gentlemen wouldn't happen to know anything about such an affair, would you?"

Porthos cleared his throat, keeping his silence otherwise.

D'Artagnan looked at the others, hoping that one of them would do the right thing and share with the Captain what they had found out. The bloody rapier in Aramis' possession didn't necessarily mean that he'd killed the King's cousin, but it was important information that surely they should share?

"What makes you think that we, in particular, would know anything about the matter?" Athos asked in return, his voice steady and devoid of emotion.

The Captain's eyes narrowed, his lips thinning into a white line. He was, above all else, a man who did not like being played a fool. "Because upon my visit to the family, I came across _this_ in the possession of his niece," he stated, pulling a long pistol from the parcel he carried under his arm. "Mademoiselle d' Goutier did not struck me as the kind of person to own such a weapon."

While the pistol itself was nothing out of the ordinary, the embossed work on its grip was unmistakable, especially when its matching pair was resting on Aramis' table.

"So... which of you gentlemen can explain to me what this pistol was doing in the dead Vicomte's house?"

The silence that settled over the room was a visceral, solid thing that poked at everyone present, urging them to say something just to make it go away.

It was Aramis, who, in his delirium, broke the quiet by renewing his struggles against his bonds. "She's not yours...you villain..." he hissed, managing to almost sit up, his face red with fever and the effort. "Giselle!"

Treville's eyes narrowed at the mention of the name, but his reaction went unnoticed as Porthos rushed to his friend's side. It never ceased to amaze that, despite his size and obvious strength, they belayed the great care with which the larger man took to press Aramis back to the mattress. "Settle down, Aramis...you're amongst friends."

In Aramis' delirium muddled mind, however, there were no friends or loved ones anywhere around him. There were only just monsters and foes, and Aramis seemed to want to battle them all to save this Giselle woman.

"No! Release me!" Aramis tried to scream, his eyes open and staring straight through Porthos, not really seeing him. "Can't you see that she doesn't love him?"

Athos went to help Porthos, a cup with a sleeping draught in his hand. There were still hours until they could give something more for his fever, so the best thing seemed to try and keep him calm. Already his bandages were dotted with fresh blood, most certainly from tearing his stitches.

"I think I've already heard enough," the captain announced. He turned abruptly and retrieved his hat from where it hung by the door.

"Captain?" d'Artagnan looked at him curiously.

" _Giselle_ , the niece of the Vicomte de Turenne," Treville said, placing his hat on his head, "was meant to be betrothed to General Buchan in a matter of days, a marriage that would very much please the King and her uncle." Rage and worry clearly battled for dominance over his expression. "That was the reason why the Vicomte was in Paris in the first place...if she was involved with Aramis in any way..." He let the possibilities hang in the air as he opened the door.

D'Artagnan looked between his friends where they were occupied with helping Aramis, and Treville, torn about what to do. Given what the Captain said and the implications validated by Aramis himself, albeit, a fevered confession, it didn't bode well for the marksman. It certainly looked like he had been the one to kill the Vicomte over the matter of his niece's affections.

If pressed, d'Artagnan would confess that his first impression of Aramis had not been the best, not taking in account the fact that the marksman had defended Athos, the man who, at the time, the Gascon had believed to be his father's murderer. His flamboyant speech and actions, however… in those first moments, d'Artagnan had truly thought the older man to be touched in the head, or – at the very least – devoid of any honor.

But that wasn't the Aramis he had come to know over these last many months.

The Aramis he now knew liked to fool people into believing that he cared for very little and couldn't be bothered to worry about anyone else but himself. This revelation hadn't taken long for d'Artagnan to ascertain. The façade the marksman presented was little more than a mask, an illusion that the Aramis deployed to protect his caring nature and big heart.

That was the Aramis that was worth knowing. The one worthy of their trust and respect, and the undying friendship of Athos and Porthos.

If that man, a man d'Artagnan trusted with his life, _had_ truly killed the Vicomte de Turenne, the Gascon had to believe that there existed a very strong reason to do so. Aramis was, above all else, a man of honor.

"Captain!" d'Artagnan called out, hurrying after the older man. "Wait...if you please."

Treville looked annoyed, barely slowing his steps to allow the young man to catch up. "What do you want, d'Artagnan?"

"Sir...you know Aramis better than me," the Gascon stated. "You know that there's more to this story than what appears at first glance. Aramis would never kil—"

"I _do_ know Aramis," the Captain cut in, the hint of anger in his voice worrisome. "And I know that he is one of the most honorable and caring people I've ever known," he went on, his appreciation of the marksman's personality and skills easing his tone. "But I am also aware that, in the matters of women and love, Aramis is one of the most idiotic people on God's green earth, so, if you're done wasting my time, I have a King to appease and expla—"

"At least allow him to regain his strength and explain himself," d'Artagnan pleaded, his affection for Aramis lending weight to his words. "Just...a day or two...I'm sure that h—"

Treville sighed. It was plain to see that he had no desire to tell the King that one of his best Musketeers was possibly responsible for the death of a nobleman. "One day," the older man offered with a sense of finality. "After that, I will have to tell the King _something_."

D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile. "Of course, sir," he agreed readily. Before taking his leave, a sudden thought struck him. "Sir...if you don't mind," he called again, regaining the Captain's attention. "How exactly did the Vicomte die?"

Treville frowned, apparently surprised by the question. "He was shot," he replied. "Bullet wound very close to his heart...it was only the fact that the pistol was fired from a distance that prevented it from killing him instantly."

The Gascon stood in the street outside Aramis' quarters, baffled and surprised, not even taking notice when the Captain dismissed him and walked away.

All this time, they had been assuming that the blood on Aramis' rapier was from the wound that had killed the Vicomte, but if the man had been shot that...that made absolutely no sense at all.

 

 

"I strongly recommend leeches," Doctor Poulet repeated.

"'Course you do," Porthos folded his arms over his rather broad chest, stood to full height and stepped none too subtly between the physician and their injured friend. "But you get the same answer as yesterday, when you suggested bloodletting. No."

The doctor sighed. Poulet was a portly man, shorter than Porthos by a good head--then again, most men were-- and only slightly older than Athos. If he'd been a bit on the nervous side entering the room the first time, he was nearly apoplectic at his additional visit. If Athos were to guess, Porthos would have the man losing what remained of his hair by the end of the week.

On the doctor's first visit, paid with what meager coins the three of them had been able to put together on short notice, the physician had flushed the putrid flesh and sewn up the wound, as well as graciously given them some herbs and a few concoctions that they could use to ease Aramis' symptoms. At the time, he had suggested bloodletting to ease the fever, only to be met then with a resounding voice of descent from the three Musketeers, and a fearsome look from Porthos. Just to be on the safe side.

The Musketeers had been surprised to see him back on their doorstep the following day, until they learned it had been at Treville's bequest, and coin. Poulet had eagerly obliged if his much improved attitude was anything to go by, likely due to some expectation of a greater compensation from the Captain of the King's own soldiers. This time Poulet offered the less appalling and less costly version of bloodletting, one in the form of the revolting little blood-sucking beasts.

While d'Artagnan had confided in Porthos and Athos as to the Captain's suspicions, they all knew that their commander would spare no effort to make sure Aramis survived, as he would for any of his men.

The mere fact that Poulet had made such a differentiation in the type of services he offered, dependent on who paid and the sum involved, was enough for Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan to lose any —of the meager— trust in the man. Porthos, for his part, was more than willing to break the good doctor in two to make it easier for him to use his two-faced revolting attitude, a sentiment that, while shared, needed Athos calming hand on Porthos shoulder to stop him from doing something so hasty. And bloody.

As it were, d'Artagnan barely restrained himself from shoving the doctor out when he, politely, showed Poulet to the door.

Later that day, sometime during the night, Aramis had finally stopped struggling against his bonds. His body and linens soaked with sweat, he lay almost alarmingly still, compared to the rantings they'd come accustomed to and even his delirious speeches had ceased. In the void of it all, the room filled with a heavy silence and broken by the occasional moan or groan, the only signs that assured them life still beat inside Aramis' chest.

It was clear to see, aside the doctor's insistence on the leeches, that there was nothing left to do but wait and hope. Hope that this wasn't the one time when Aramis failed to bounce back from an injury. Hope that they weren't waiting in vain. That they weren't waiting for the end.

As they sat in silence, each trapped inside his own thoughts, d'Artagnan couldn't help but feel a deep sense of anger towards the situation.

In the short time since they'd met and worked together, the young man had seen Aramis charge a large group of Red Guards and remain unscathed; had heard about him jumping on top of a bomb and simply shrugging it off with a smile; had seen him being thrown from his horse, standing atop a bridge over a rushing river and never lose his composure or track of the deceit he was playing.

And now, a simple graze, caused by a treacherous bullet in the back, was the thing that seemed resolved to steal the marksman from them. Something mundane within their daily existence now invited Death to loom over their heads, ready to claim that which was not hers to claim.

It was hardly fair and d'Artagnan could not help but feel utterly helpless to defend Aramis against such an invisible foe. Were Death a breeze, and d'Artagnan could cut it down, to keep it from drifting by and chilling them with its touch.

On the matter of defending Aramis' honor, d'Artagnan felt, as they all did, equally powerless. With no one else but a dead man and a dying one to tell what had passed between the two of them, it would be hard to prove that Aramis hadn't killed the Vicomte, but even harder to dismiss the idea that he might have. The marksman's memory would be forever marred by such a deed, obscuring all the brave and selfless acts that he had achieved in his life. Relegating his legacy to one of shame and suspicion.

"It was the same with my mother," Porthos whispered, breaking the silence. A quiet sniff followed his words, but no one dared to look too closely at his face in search of tears. "First she got real quiet, and then by dawn..."

Athos and d'Artagnan couldn't help but glance at Aramis. He lay in repose, the single candle in the room revealing pale lips, sallow skin and hair pasted to his brow and neck. The only sign of life was the flush of fever upon his cheeks and chest. It was becoming harder and harder to imagine him as the same man who had arranged an impromptu party in a matter of minutes to celebrate Porthos' birthday.

"This is _Aramis_ ," Athos responded, neck stiff, nostrils flaring, as if the mere notion that Aramis would die was something that he found offensive. "If Death is a lady, as the poets seem to claim, he will have no trouble wooing her into letting him stay a little while longer."

Although Athos' tone was light and playful, the pain and worry were plain to see in the older Musketeer's face. It was a fanciful dream to believe Aramis' charms powerful enough to convince Death to return later, but all of them were all-too-familiar with the fate of most men who suffered from festering wounds.

A knock on the door pulled them out of their gloom, curious about who could possibly be looking for them. The Captain would've simply barged in, and no one else knew where they were.

Exchanging a look with the others, d'Artagnan went to the door while Porthos and Athos reached for their pistols. There was no way of knowing who had shot Aramis and whether the coward responsible would try to finish what he'd started. There could be one foe at the door, or a whole host of villains, but one thing was certain: none of them would get close enough to lay a finger on their friend.

Heart beating out of his chest with an odd mix of dread and excitement, d'Artagnan opened the door to find a young lady covered in a cloak of the finest material that did not fully cover the fine silk dress beneath. He stood there, stunned, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder in search of the foes his gut had been expecting.

"Please, Monsieur, I'm looking for the Musketeer Aramis. Is this where he lives?"

The first utterance of her concern and despair left d'Artagnan with little doubt. This could be no other than the mysterious and fair Giselle and she looked… not one day older than sixteen and absolutely terrified. "You should not be here," he hissed, looking for signs of her uncle's people, or even the Red Guards.

"You don't understand! I _need_ to see him," she pleaded, tears rushing to her eyes as she tried to peer past him. "I need to know that I have not killed my savior!"

For a second time in as many minutes, the Gascon found himself confounded by circumstances. "You— _You_ shot Aramis?" he gasped, even as the woman ignored his dismay and slipped past.

Giselle, however, was too deeply distressed to answer. She had fallen at the side of Aramis' bed, his lax hand grasped between hers, tears running freely from her closed eyes. "Oh...Aramis, my valiant knight..." she sobbed. "I am so deeply sorry for what happened..."

D'Artagnan exchanged a look with the others, finding their stunned expressions similar to his own.

Without a word, Athos fetched a bottle of wine that rested on Aramis' windowsill. He poured some into a wooden cup and came to her side.

"Mademoiselle," the swordsman said, gently resting a hand on the distraught woman's shoulder. "Drink this...it will help." He glanced at Porthos and d'Artagnan before continuing. "And then, perhaps, you can tell us what you know."

She gulped the wine, choking and coughing. By the time she had regained control over her breathing, her composure had somewhat returned.

"How rude of me," she apologized, seemingly realizing for the first time that she was sitting in front of three strange men. "I am Giselle d' Goutier, niece of the late—"

"Vicomte de Turenne, yes, we are aware," d'Artagnan cut in, eager to move past what they already knew. "You were bound to marry General Buchan, but got involved with Aramis instead and when your uncle discovered it, he challenged Aramis to a duel for your honor and lost. What we would like to know is—"

"What?" Giselle looked at d'Artagnan in surprise before shaking her head. "Truly, you know nothing, Monsieur," she retorted, heat flushing her cheeks pink. "And you assume entirely too much."

"Then, please," Porthos asked with a scowl. "Enlighten us."

Giselle extended the cup and gave it a shake, silently asking for more. The tale, it seemed, would not be easy on her fraying nerves. Athos obliged and with her cup once more filled, they watched as she took another drink, each of them sharing curious glances.

"My uncle was not an honorable person," she said bitterly. Disgust marred her face at the memory of the man. "Since the death of my parents, he had eyes only for the lands I inherited and my family's silver and gold, but as long as I remained alive and without a husband, he could not touch either. The easiest way he could find to dispose of me was to offer my hand in marriage to any man he pleased."

"And so he gave you to the General…" Athos filled in knowingly, his own level of disgust piqued. Such agreements were common within noble society, though he disagreed with the practice completely. Of course, in his case, escaping arranged marriages had not ended so well.

"The General was both convenient and a favorite of the King," she paused, sipping at the wine. "Everyone would get what they wanted... except for me."

"You asked Aramis for help," Athos offered.

"I asked God for help," she corrected. "Aramis must have overheard my prayers at the church and came to me, offered to intercede in my behalf." Giselle smiled warmly. "I could not believe my good fortune when he offered his assistance."

"What went wrong?" Porthos asked, looking past her to their injured friend.

"My uncle would not listen to any of his reasoning, and when Aramis threatened to take the matter to the King himself, my uncle lost his mind and challenged your friend to a duel. With swords."

"Aramis won," d'Artagnan guessed without much effort. While Athos was certainly the best swordsman he had ever encountered, Aramis wasn't that far behind. The few times he'd sparred with the marksman, d'Artagnan had found himself hard pressed not to embarrass himself.

"He did, and with such ease...but he refused to harm my uncle," Giselle confirmed. "Aramis drew first blood and called upon my uncle's honor to respect my wishes and give up his. But then..." she went on, sobs rising once more. "My—my uncle...we walked away— Aramis must have sensed that there was something wrong—" Tears broke out anew.

The girl looked around worriedly a moment before lifting one corner of her woolen cape and wiping her nose. Numerous times. Athos eyes widened comically before he started searching his pockets.

Giselle turned to send an apologetic look to the senseless man on the bed. Athos froze as together the Musketeers followed her gaze, respecting her need for some personal reflection, even as all of them had already guessed what had happened next.

"Your uncle reached for a pistol, didn't he?" Porthos supplied. At her teary nod, he growled, "He intended to shoot Aramis in the back?"

Again, she nodded, fresh tears breaking from her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. A finely embroidered handkerchief unfolded itself in front of her gaze, Athos' hand attached to the other hand, offering the piece of linen in his off-handed, gentlemanly way. "Aramis tried to talk him out of it, but I knew my uncle," she went on. "He was going to kill him, for little more than meddling in his affairs, so—" she stopped, unable to utter the next words.

"You took Aramis' pistol and fired," Athos voiced for her. "Only Aramis was in the way and the same ball that killed the Vicomte grazed his back."

The woman dissolved in grief, bowing over to hide her face in shame. "I called out... Aramis turned sideways...I didn't meant to..." she whispered, the words muffled by the silk of her skirts. "I swear to God and all the angels that I didn't mean to..." she repeated, looking up, searching their eyes for forgiveness. "Aramis placed himself in front of me, shielding me from my uncle. I called out a warning when I fired but... it wasn't enough..."

D'Artagnan knelt beside her, taking her hands in his, much like she had done before with Aramis. In her watery gaze, he could see that she meant it, both for hurting Aramis and killing her own uncle. "We believe you," he whispered gently. "And we thank you," he added from the bottom of his heart.

"Tha-thank...me?" she asked, blowing her nose on the offered handkerchief, much to Athos' revulsion.

Porthos nodded, mirroring d'Artagnan's position and laying his hands over theirs. "You saved our brother's life. Aramis would've had second thoughts about shooting a nobleman and that could've cost him his life...you didn't, and we thank you for that."

"No! No, no, you've misunderstood me," Giselle cried, her nimble hands escaping theirs as she stumbled to her feet, the kerchief wadded tight in one small fist. "I hurt him! I...I was so lost at the sight of my uncle, bleeding, that I allowed Aramis to walk away on his own, foolishly believing that he would reach help in time," she sobbed anew. "I convinced myself that he was fine, that everything would be alright, just like he assured me."

"He _did_ find help," Athos reassured her. "And grim as it looks at the moment, I can assure you that we've seen Aramis struggle through worse and come out victorious."

He was lying through his teeth; d'Artagnan could see that, even if Giselle, who didn't know either man well, could not. But that was the whole point, he decided. The young woman had already been through enough and her tale had, at least, put their hearts at ease.

"You are wrong, Monsieur," she stated boldly, wiping the tears from her face. "But there is something I can do for him. Felicks, our family's physician, is waiting outside," she continued with determination, handing over the used handkerchief back to Athos.

The older Musketeer took one step back, looking at the piece of cloth like it had teeth and was out for blood. "Please… consider it a gift for," he paused, grimacing, "your cancelled wedding."

The young woman nodded gracefully, moving to the door. "With your permission, I would like Felicks to look at Aramis' wound and treat it if he can."

Porthos' scoffed, unimpressed. "A fever's a fever, Mademoiselle...naught to be done 'bout it," he declared. It was clear by his tone that he was less than inclined to have anyone else poking at Aramis, especially anyone calling himself a _physician_.

"Felicks is not like most physicians, I assure you," she replied, a smile gracing her lips for the first time. It was only then that they could see how truly young and beautiful she was. "If I may?"

 

 

The fact that Giselle's miracle worker hadn't arrived carrying a bottle filled with leeches was encouraging enough for the three men to allow the physician, at least, the benefit of the doubt. The doctor, not much older than Aramis himself, had taken one whiff of the air permeating the room and, even before looking at his patient, had turned back out to the street.

"What… just happened?" d'Artagnan put his hands on his hips and looked around the room for answers that were not forthcoming in Athos' shrug or Porthos muttered growl.

So left to their own devices, the three Musketeers watched the door expectantly. Porthos simply raised a brow, crossed his arms over his chest, his demeanor giving off an air of vindication in his declaration that all physicians were crooks with little more than chicken feathers for brain.

Just when they thought they'd lost the doctor for good, Felicks returned a short time later. The young physician carried in one hand, extended before him a ball of spider webs and a victorious smile on his face. "Do you have bread? Stale would be preferable," he asked, his speech pattern hinting of something foreign, as he steadily ignored their looks of bewilderment.

While Athos and Porthos stood guard over the physician's every movement, watching and cataloguing any sign of distress on Aramis' part, d'Artagnan stood in fascination as the man mixed the webs with water and bread. In no time at all and with little effort, Felicks created what amounted to a thick paste, and he wasted no time in applying over Aramis' wound.

"Change that every three hours," he ordered, his eyes locking with the young Gascon's as he seemed the most interested. "This is very important, no more, no less than three hours, _tak_?"

D'Artagnan found himself nodding, unable to tear his gaze away. It could be only a mere coincidence, but to his eyes, Aramis already looked more at ease. "Three hours, no more, no less," he confirmed, earning a smile from the strange man.

"Good," Felicks replied, washing his hands in a bucket of clean water. "Your friend is young and strong," he went on, pushing Aramis' tangled, sweat-soaked hair away from his face. "He'll be back saving young damsels in distress in no time at all." He gave each of them a triumphant gaze before turning to Giselle. He bestowed upon her a gentle smile and a wink.

The young woman blushed violently, turning her eyes away. D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile.

Her heart was certainly taken, but this once, it was not by their hopelessly romantic friend.

 

 

Aramis woke to a hellish symphony of snoring. Porthos' loud snorts commanded the music, while the others followed, some soft, some sharp, all in perfect harmony with each other.

Still, it was a ghastly sound.

He blinked, eyelids that felt like blocks of heavy stone grinding against his eyes as he fought his way through such a simple gesture.

The ceiling above his head looked like the one at the garrison, but beneath the snoring, he could hear the Seine outside, water lapping against the banks as fishing boats passed by. His private rooms, then.

Turning his head to the side proved to be easier than lifting his eyelids, and Aramis sighed in relief as his cheek pressed against the feather pillow that someone had placed under his head. From that position, he could easily see three familiar faces, all in similar positions of slumber.

Athos was in a chair, leaned back precariously, his feet propped on the table next to his hat. Inches away from his boots was Porthos' head, resting on his folded arms, his heavy breaths making the feather on Athos' hat flutter. Of d'Artagnan he could only see the back of his head, hair falling to hide his face as he slept on the floor, leaning against the bed.

"You're safe," a grave, familiar voice stated. "You're home."

Aramis smiled, feeling his cheeks protest even that movement. He cared not, for the words could not have been more accurate or welcomed. Slowly, he turned away from his family and faced the other side of his bed, where Treville rested against the window.

"I—" he started, the words dissolving into a croak as he discovered that, like the rest of his body, his voice was unwilling to obey his commands.

"It has been three days since you _foolishly_ sought out the Vicomte de Turenne on your own," the Captain supplied, guessing most of what Aramis wanted to ask, unable to keep the annoyance out of his tone. "The wound on your back became badly infected when you failed to reach help in time, causing those three to exhaust themselves tending to you," he went on.

Aramis closed his eyes, searching his own memories for what had happened and hiding his gaze from the judgment in his Captain's gaze.

Images of the Vicomte and the dismissive way with which the noble had treated everyone around him came flooding back to his otherwise sluggish mind. Next he remembered how the nobleman had foolishly challenged Aramis to a duel and how hard the marksman had tried to not harm the annoying little man.

However, the reasoning for it all was something else entirely. Try as he might he could not recall why he had been in such a foul creature's presence in the first place. Soon, the distraught cries of a young woman, echoing across the empty church's nave, came to his recollection with the force of a horse's kick.

"Giselle!" Aramis let out hoarsely. Forgetting about his aching body and weak limbs, he pushed both hands against the mattress to rise.

"Wha—?" Porthos sputtered, coughing as he rose too fast.

"Is it my turn?" d'Artagnan's head shot up quickly, eyes blinking behind a curtain of hair, while Athos nearly lost his balance before his chair settled harshly on the floor.

"Do not move!" Treville barked, instinctively taking a step closer to the bed.

The cacophony of words sent Aramis' head spinning, as he foolishly tried to look both ways at once, searching for Porthos and d'Artagnan on one side and the Captain on the other. In the end, his ailing body made the decision for him, as strength fled his arms and he sank back down with a oomph!

"Please don't tell me we need to tie you to your bed," Athos protested, side-eyeing the injured man. "Again."

Aramis frowned, his brain still working around the fact that his body was not working properly when Athos' words registered. "Again?" he asked, looking at his wrists. There was some redness there, but no broken skin. "Why?"

"You kept wanting to ride your bed out of the room," d'Artagnan offered, his expression the most grievous possible. "It was either that or find you a better horse," he added with a smile.

Underneath the banter and light words, it was easy to see the exhaustion and worry that his friends had endured. D'Artagnan's hair hung flat against his head, Porthos' beard was threatening to engulf his whole neck and Athos had shadows under his eyes that almost reached his mustache. While Aramis felt like he had spent a whole week battling street cats, he knew that matters had not been any easier for those who had been at his bed-side, taking care of him.

"I cannot recall reaching the garrison," Aramis confessed, "or how we ended up here."

"You were trying to reach the garrison?" Porthos let out a laugh. "Mate, you took a couple of very wrong turns."

"That would be because you never did," Treville supplied at the same time. "If you're all awake now," he went on, turning his attention to the bleary-eyed group on the other side of the bed, "I have actual duties that require my attention, other than watching my men sleep...namely, sorting out the trouble you and that young lady caused."

The marksman's eyes grew wide as he realized what the Captain was referring to. "The Vicomte," he whispered. "Does he live? Is Giselle safe?"

"No, he does not and yes, she is," Treville answered shortly, making his way to the door. "Fortunately for Mademoiselle d'Goutier, the Queen was present when she made her petition to the King and Her Majesty interceded on her behalf," he informed. "The Queen will be taking the young lady as one of her ladies in waiting, while the King has agreed to consider the death of the Vicomte de Turenne an unfortunate accident...one in which you took no part, are we clear?"

Aramis nodded as best he could, his head feeling like it weighed a thousand tons while his lids slowly lost the battle to obey his commands. "Thank you, Captain," he whispered.

He had no idea how the others had found him, but that was a question for another time. All that mattered at present was that Treville was aware of all that had transpired at the Vicomte's house— the how if it also a mystery— along with the Captain's apparent knowledge as to what transpired inside his own home over the past few days. But again, Aramis thought as he yawned sleepily, all in due time.

For now, he felt safe...and tired.

And while the first feeling wasn't going anywhere, the second was strongly demanding his attention. So, Aramis closed his eyes and rested.

 


	2. For Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are battles that can be fought and others that you can merely hope to survive. Facing an impossible obstacle, only their union and love for one another can give the Musketeers a chance to live to see another day.

“Well…?”

Aramis didn’t bother looking at their youngest member; his eyes remained locked on the angry, wet beast before them.

Any other time, he would have just called it a river, but now it was much more than that. The water had been little more than a lazily drifting stream when they’d crossed it on their way to Savoy, but seemingly endless days of non-stop, heavy torrents of rain, had left it nearly unrecognizable.

Thankfully the rains had abated for now, but the damage was done.

“Well what?” Porthos all but growled. “I know you’re eager to get home but we try crossing that and we’re all as good as dead.”

Swollen beyond its banks and littered with rocks and debris from upstream where the flooding had been the worst, the torrent was almost deafening as it crashed along its newly formed banks. Occasional sprays shot upward, air born from a collision with something unseen beneath, before smashing against the boulders too large to be unseated. The river flowed wildly by, hampered only occasionally by the odd assortment of debris, branches and sometimes whole trees, their root systems intact, all hurdling along the rapidly rising water.

“We all long for home as much as you—” Athos glanced at the boy. “—well, almost as much. But we need to find a safe way across. It’s either finding that bridge the villagers told us about or remain here until the river subsides.”

“Presuming the damn thing even exists,” Porthos added unhappily.

Athos looked at him. “You think they lied?”

“I think we’ve been riding for hours and haven’t seen a damn thing,” Porthos pointed out, twisting around on his saddle to look at the path they had traveled. “I think we’d do better to go back to that Inn and wait until the river is more passable.”

Aramis smirked. “I think Porthos liked that pretty barmaid and wants to see her again.”

Porthos looked at his friend. “You’re just sore because, for the first time in our travels, the pretty girl had eyes for me and not you.”

“Not at all,” Aramis shook his head. “It was bound to happen. Even a blind squirrel gets a nut once and awhile.”

“You sayin’ she was blind?”

“Certainly not,” Aramis said with just the right amount of affront. “She was far too lovely to liken to a squirrel.” He glanced at Porthos’ questioning gaze and gave a quick shrug. “But perhaps her eyesight is on the decline.”

Porthos scowled and thought for a moment. “So you’re saying I’m a nut?”

Aramis opened his mouth to reply and thought better of it. “Really my friend, you make this too easy.”

The Musketeers had left Paris nearly a week ago and rain had threatened the entire time. It hadn’t come to fruition until they’d delivered their prisoner to the Savoy guard and turned for home. It was a round trip that should have taken four, five days at the most, but once the rain began, it had forced them to seek shelter in some out of the way village. It was there they heard of this bridge that, apparently, had managed to avoid being depicted in any of their maps.

They’d been overly optimistic on the first day at the Inn. Positively certain the deluge would last no more than a day, two at the most. Instead, it had lent itself to a three-day downpour. Three days. Three miserable. Boring. Mind numbing days of doing little more than sitting in the pub or their rooms, watching from their respective windows as the countryside disappear behind a curtain of gray.

The tedium was suffocating for all of them. Save for Porthos. The servant girl had taken a shine to him right off, that much was evident and things had gone nicely. Up until the time the flirting had gotten heated, then Porthos had retreated. And since then, Aramis found a new game to play called needle your best friend mercilessly. A game only Aramis could play to perfection.

“What was her name again?” Aramis looked at the sky as if the answer lay there. “Serena… Salette...Sarah—something with an S...”

“Annette.” Porthos shot back.

“Ah.” Aramis smirked and adjusted the reins in his hands. “You my friend, have a type.”

“What type? You mean the type that fancy me over you?”

“That, and dark hair, blue eyes and names that start with the letter ‘A’”. Porthos looked confused and Aramis obliged. “Or have you forgotten the lovely widow, Alice?”

“Enough,” Athos interrupted. “You two are giving me a headache. I shudder to think how much worse it will be if we have to continue our patronage of that Inn.”

“What?” d’Artagnan all but shrieked. “You can’t seriously be thinking of going back.” Three heads turned and stared at him expectantly when the boy finally sighed, rolling his eyes. “It’s not just about Constance.”

“Tha’d be a first,” Porthos grinned, looking at Aramis who nodded solemnly.

“The boy is smitten,” Aramis sighed, laying a hand over his heart. “He has good taste. Not so sure about hers, though.”

D’Artagnan looked pointedly at Athos. “The letter the Duchess of Savoy gave us, about Spain’s renewed attempts at a treaty...” He looked from Porthos then to Aramis. “Or has the rain slogged all of your brains?”

“Ah, sense in the form of youth,” Aramis sighed. “How rare a thing to behold.” This time Aramis and Porthos chuckled together.

“Nevertheless, he is right.” Athos cut in. “That is information of the utmost importance and we should present it to the Captain as quickly as we can.”

“Alright,” Aramis offered, refocusing on the matter at hand as he looked at the river. “We could split up? Two of us upriver, two down, look for this elusive bridge?”

Athos nodded. “Porthos, you and d’Artagnan head upstream, while Aramis and I will head down river. Whoever finds anything, a bridge or just a suitable crossing, fire a shot.”

Nothing more was said, the four broke out into groups of two and headed their separate ways. One headed east, the other in a more southwesterly direction, carefully navigating the banks of the treacherous water.

Aramis lead the way along the river, moving up and away from the rushing water as they rode single file. They spent an hour or more within earshot of the rushing water, noting how the terrain rose somewhat steeply beneath their horses’ hooves where the earth had been altered greatly by the heavy rains and flooded river. Several times, they had to encourage their horses to ford small streams that had broken through the soft ground and were beginning to create creeks of their own in other directions. Thankfully those cut-throughs were easily handled.

For the most part.

After that first hour and at a particularly wider juncture where water had begun cutting its own direction, they’d done as before, and got their horses to jump the small stream. Aramis had gone first, his horse clearing the small gorge easily, Athos following. Roger had done well enough but the ground seemed to shift when he landed and the animal shied frightfully to one side, shrieking in fear. Aramis turned in time to see the earth all but disappear from its back legs as they came down.

Athos made a grab for the reins, attempting to get his mount under control. Aramis was quickly out of the saddle as the horse continued to flounder. He rushed to grab the horse's bridle, striving to bring the frightened horse the rest of the way up until his back legs were once more on solid footing.

By all outward appearances, they made it unscathed, though it took some time to get the horse to settle. Roger was not despondent. He snorted, stomped and threw his head about, clearly unhappy with his master for having betrayed him in some manner.

After several minutes, Aramis finally got the animal to lower his head and he began talking quietly to the beast. When it seemed he’d succeeded in calming the horse, Aramis released his bridle and repositioned himself to the animal’s side. He continued to stroke its forehead gently, Roger growing more docile by the moment.

“What…” Athos exhaled, the danger passed, “did you say to him and was that... Latin?”

Aramis tossed a grin over his shoulder as he moved back to his own horse, gathered up his reins and prepared to mount. “It was a prayer in Latin.” Once he was settled in the saddle he looked at Athos and shrugged. “Works on my horse all the time and I noticed on yours too when I visit the stables. Yours,” he pointed, “dislikes the farrier when he’s re-shod. So, I talk to him and he seems to calm.”

“Huh,” Athos reached down and stroked the horse's neck. “I did not know this about him.”

“You should visit the stables more often.”

“I don’t know any prayers either…” 

Aramis nodded, his face taking a mock serious tone. “I take that back. You should visit a priest more often.”

Athos moved his horse next to Aramis. “I hear the wine is dreadful.”

“Ah, but it’s free.”

“No, it’s not,” Athos deadpanned and moved to take the lead.

Aramis smiled and fell in behind Athos, the pair of them once more on the move.

It soon became apparent that Roger hadn’t fully recovered his nerve. His earlier scare seemed to make the horse recalcitrant at approaching even the smallest stream, jittery when skirting it meant getting closer to the river. He grew more agitated as they continued and it was all Athos could do to keep him on task and obedient to his commands.

It seemed to worsen rather than improve when a large tree, gnarled and flipping about in the water, smashed into the bank just ahead of them. The impact displaced the water in a terrible splash, great enough to send water raining about them. Too frightened to continue, the horse tossed his head and started to skitter back.

Aramis moved his horse to one side to stay out if the way. “Athos, perhaps you should dismount. Let him figure himself out a moment.”

“Can—” he dug his heels in to try and change his direction. “Can you not say something to him in Latin?”

“I think he’s beyond hearing sweet words now.”

“Come on, Roger...” Athos gritted. “Easy boy.” For a moment, the horse seemed to settle but if his head-tossing were anything to go by, it was a tentative truce between man and beast. “There, that is… mostly better.”

“That is not my definition of better, mostly or otherwise.” Aramis cringed when the animal raised his front legs, only to come down and began pawing at the ground. “Truly Athos, dismount of your own free will before he forces the matter...”

“He will be fine,” Athos countered, though it seemed more for his own benefit, “once we find that bridge and put some distance between us and this river.”

Aramis wanted to say more but Athos was already well ahead of him, clearly indicating the matter was settled. He prayed to God it was and touched his heels to his horse's side, moving to close the distance.

He almost made it.

Counter to Athos’ words, Roger continued his restlessness. He refused any attempt to return near the water’s edge, even when the terrain dictated they should. The ground seemed to rise where the water had cut into the earth, carving out large chunks and carrying them downstream. Whole root systems lay exposed at the edge, the river cutting in around and through them before moving on.

Roger just worked his way up one small mound when a terrible crack split the air.

A tree, barely clinging to the ground in which it had grown for decades, dislodged a large, severely waterlogged branch. The thing split down into the core of the trunk, the sound of it like that of five muskets firing simultaneously. For Athos’ mount, already spooked and on the verge, it was more than enough.

Roger whinnied in fright and reared fully upright this time. Aramis could only watch, helpless to stop it as Athos tumbled out of the saddle.

“Athos!” Aramis shouted as he jumped from his horse. 

The swordsman landed on uneven ground and immediately began tumbling down the embankment. The river waiting eagerly to receive him. 

“No…” Aramis ran but the slippery ground hampered his movement. “Athos!” 

Athos disappeared over the ledge, followed seconds later by a heart rending splash.

Still in pursuit, Aramis stopped short of the water’s edge, nearly falling in himself as the soft ground gave way beneath his foot. He grabbed hold of a nearby sapling tree to steady himself and locked eyes with Athos. The muddy water all but had him in its grasp, swirling around him as if preparing to ensnare him further.

“Take my hand!” Aramis tried to stretch out and reach him but it was no use. It was too far.

Just as Aramis thought to run back to his horse for rope, the water surged. It was as if an unseen hand grabbed Athos and jerked him away. Athos flailed wildly before he was dragged out from the bank and into the current.

“Athos!” Aramis shouted and watched in terror as Athos was quickly swallowed by the current and whisked out of sight.

Cursing under his breath, Aramis spun, slipped and clawed his way up the muddy slope until his feet hit solid ground and he was able to rush back to his mount. He made a quick grab for the reins only to have his horse toss its head, whipping the leather cord out of reach as he nickered nervously.

“Oh, not you too…” Aramis grumbled.

There was no time for the beast’s ruffled emotions. The water was moving fast and the longer he delayed, the further away Athos was moving. Anger surged as Aramis shot a hand out, grabbed the rein and tugged the reluctant animal forward. He held it only long enough to snatch the coil of rope from the pommel, then, caring not what the animal did, he took off, loping along the side of the bank, eyes locked on the river. Looking for a sign of his friend…

He’d nearly fallen into despair when a large, oddly shaped clump breached the rushing water midway out.

Athos.

Still too far for Aramis to reach, he could only watch as Athos’ body bobbed and tumbled to the surface. His arms flailed about, desperate for something to stop his careening momentum.

“Athos!” Aramis shouted, breath coming out in wet clouds, eyes darting between his struggling friend and the terrain in front of him as he ran. “Hold on! I’ll get to you! Hold. On!”

In a moment sure to haunt his dreams, Aramis caught a glimpse of Athos’ face, one last time before the water pulled him under once more. Terrified.

“No…” he whispered, to God, the Devil, to Mother Nature or whomever that seemed determined to make this Athos’ day to slip the surly bonds of this earth. No.

Swearing this would not be that day Aramis found new resolve.

Without stopping or missing a step, Aramis looped the coil of rope around his neck and left arm, leaving his hands free to unbuckled his weapons belt. He palmed a pistol in each hand as the leather strap fell away, no longer hampering his stride. Aramis now ran faster along the soggy ground, keeping one eye on the river, one on the way ahead, wary of the debris that littered his path, hidden in the tall grass as he raced along.

Prayers rolled of his lips as he glanced at the river, searching the angry waters for anything familiar. Still no sign of Athos. Neither stopping nor slowing, he quickly raised one of the pistols high and fired it into the air, tethering a prayer to the shot that the sound and the words carried back to their friends.

A massive tree lay on its side just ahead; he saw it only seconds before colliding with it. He had just enough time to toss the spent pistol aside, plant his free hand on the rough surface and leverage himself up and over. Without missing a beat, Aramis was off at a run again, barely stopping to regain his balance as his feet hit the ground.

His gaze swung anxiously to the river, hoping for another glimpse of Athos. When none came, Aramis had to trust to the fact that the water was moving too fast for him to properly get a glimpse of anything and so he surged forward. He raised his second pistol, and fired it next. Porthos and d’Artagnan would not expect a second shot.

Glancing once more to the water, Aramis caught sight of a strange shaped black lump pressed up against a large bolder. He skittered to a halt, chest heaving and studied it. The protrusion was too small to be a tree, too solid to be any sort of brush, or one of a various assortment of dead animals swept off by the river’s fury. 

It was Athos. It _had_ to be. 

And his body was trapped against a large rock out in the center of the river. Athos’ back was to him, head resting partially against the rock and on his shoulder at an off angle. 

The sight of it left Aramis’ heart lurching. He moved as close to the bank as he dared, cupped his hands around his mouth and called out. “Athos!”

There was no response. Short of his body ebbing occasionally with the pulse of the water, Athos did not move.

Aramis tried to calm himself. The water was loud; could be the roar of the river washing out all other sound. Could be he had taken too much water in his ears and could not hear. Could be anything, but he was most certainly not dead.

Athos was, however, in grave trouble. Sheltered behind a large boulder in the swift moving water, he could not move, for if he did, the current would surely take him once more. The rock was truly his salvation.

For now.

“Hang on, Athos!” Aramis shouted. Still no response.

A plan quickly took shape and Aramis began unwinding his sash. After shrugging out of his doublet, he dropped the leather garment and considered removing his breeches next, only to dismiss the idea. While some clothing would hamper movement, the breeches would be an extra layer between his flesh and the cold. With the doublet gone, he rewrapped the sash about his waist to offer protection against the chaffing of the rope. His boots were off next and when that was done he rose to consider his next step.

Mud cooled the bottoms of his feet as they sank into the soft wet ground but he didn't feel it. He licked his lips, taking in the scene before him. Athos had not moved.

There was another rock, not quite as large as the one protecting Athos, but large enough that if Aramis could get to it, would make a good mid-point, out and back. He gauged the distance and while he’d rather move a bit further upriver to tie off his line, and let the current ease him out and reserve his strength, Aramis hadn’t the luxury of chance that the angle would see him run out of rope before he could reach Athos.

No. He had to play this conservatively. He’d tie off closer, maybe afford a small angle and do the rest himself. He was a strong swimmer, and while that would help he knew in his heart, swimming wasn’t the problem. The problem was that this wasn’t water one swam in…

This was water one died in…

Grabbing up the coil of rope, he thought to remove his breeches for their added weight but quickly dismissed the idea. The water would be cold and he would need all the layers he had. Though it would make things more difficult. He would simply have to overcome.

A location to tie his rope was not easily had. He scanned the bank for anything to use as anchor. While wisdom dictated he tie off to a tree less likely to have roots in soft silt, thus further from the water, he was not altogether certain he had enough rope to get to Athos in the first place. No. He needed something closer to the water’s edge to be on the safe side.

After a hasty search, he came upon one. It wasn’t much as trees go but it was slightly up river without being too far, and offered just enough of an angle to make it work. Hopefully, it would help preserve his strength until he reached the first rock. Aramis knew all to well the power of swollen rivers and he’d need his strength and then some if he was to have any hope of success.

The tree’s placement made it ideal not only for its location up river, but the fact that it was so close to the shore. Hell, it was partially in the water and with plenty of places to tie in the exposed roots.

Aramis uncoiled the length of rope and tied one end around his waist, over his sash before securing the knots as tightly as he dared. If only one of them came loose…

That task done, he took a deep breath and carefully climbed down the embankment, to reach the tree that would service as his anchor. 

The marksman was halfway down when he nearly lost his footing, his weight sending more of the ground crumbling beneath him. Holding absolutely still, the earth seemed to solidify and he was able to slow his descent as first one foot sank beneath the water, then the next. The chill sent an almost blinding shock up his body but one look at Athos was enough to shove that feeling aside. He was having his first taste of the gelid water; Athos had been submerged in it for too long already.

More in control of himself, he examined the trees roots once more and plunged his hands into the water, tying the rope around a sturdy part of the tree’s roots while he could still move his fingers. When he was done, he straightened, tugged at the rope to reassure himself it was secure and turned to look at Athos once more.

He hadn’t moved. Which on one hand was good, on another, not so good.

“I’m coming Athos,” Aramis shouted. He offered a quick prayer, crossed himself and waded out into the deeper water.

In those first three steps, Aramis quickly learned two things. One, being a strong swimmer was definitely a good thing and two, what he could see wasn’t the problem. It was what he could not see.

The undertow.

It was, in fact, that thought that occurred to him just a bit too late as he was quickly ripped off his feet and catapulted down river.

 

 

“Can you swim?”

Porthos looked at d’Artagnan, noting how his eyes looked worriedly at the river. “Not a lick. You?”

D’Artagnan shook his head, lifting his horse's hoof to get at the mud lodged in the shoe. “Not much call to learn on a farm. Oh, there was a small pond not far where we fetched water for the livestock but um… nothing like that,” he inclined his head to the rushing water a few yards away.

“Aramis did try to teach me once.”

“Aramis swims?” He stopped a moment to look up to where his friend still sat his horse.

“Like a bloody fish. Athos, too, if need be, but he hates it. Aramis however,” Porthos shook his head and chuckled. “You’d think he might have gills hidden underneath his armpits.”

D’Artagnan chuckled, the image clearing some of his apprehension. “So you‘re not worried then, about getting across?”

Porthos shook his head. “Nah… done it before. It’s why we carry rope in our gear.” He looked curiously at the boy. “You?”

“Not necessarily,” d’Artagnan said straddling another hoof between his thighs and cleaning it as he had the others, “though I don’t relish it. I much prefer to find that bridge, or continue believing it exists for now.”

Porthos didn’t laugh. He knew the boy’s fears all too well, had lived them, in fact, and he had only been a bit younger than d’Artagnan at the time when he’d experienced such fear. While running with his friends in the Court of Miracles, he’d fallen into the Seine. If Charon hadn’t been there to fish him out… Well, Porthos’d had nightmares for weeks after. Admittedly, the water then had been nothing like what they faced now.

Much as Aramis had ribbed him about the girl back at the tavern when they first arrived at the river’s edge, he knew, and even appreciated his friends’ true intent. It was in effort to take his mind of what they may yet have to do because, regardless of the thousands of rivers they’d crossed in the past, it never ceased to shake Porthos at his core. He didn’t wish that on anybody, certainly on the younger member of their group.

Porthos twisted in the saddle to look behind them. “I hope Aramis and Athos are having better luck than we are,” he grumbled, letting his horse snag at some tall grass and chew on it quietly. The water continued to thunder past just to their left, like an angry beast, ready to devour them.

“I doubt it, or we’d have heard from them by now.”

“Could be they’re just making sure the crossing is safe,” he offered staring at the water, “or found that bridge and are making certain it’s sturdy.”

“Maybe,” d’Artagnan hedged as he finished and returned the animal's foot back to the ground. Standing straight, he patted the animal gently on the neck. “I’d be happy if we could just find some ground that wasn’t so mired and thick.” He wiped his hands on his pants. “That’s the fourth time we’ve had to stop and clean out their hooves.”

Porthos nodded. “Might be we’ll just have to return to that village and stay another day or two.” He stared dourly at the rushing water.

“The Captain won’t be happy. We’re already days late as it is.”

“Yea, but he’ll understand. It’s not like we planned this.”

D’Artagnan mounted up once more and looked at the ground around them. “I think we should stay further away from the bank, see if the ground’s a bit more solid. We can see the river well enough from back here.”

“Sounds good,” Porthos lightly dug heels in his horse's side and together they moved off. “Regardless, if we don’t find anyplace to cross in the next few hours, we’ll have to either turn back or—”

A shot echoed faintly off in the distance and they both froze.

“Was that...?”

Porthos grinned. “They found the bridge.” He turned his horse back the way they’d come, though made it a point not to get too close to the thick mud nearer the river’s edge. “Come on.”

D’Artagnan smiled, relief evident on his face. “Thank God. I was all but certain we’d be spending the night in the rain. Again.”

“Not in the rain,” Porthos replied, a wistful look on his face. “Told you already. We’d’ve gone back to that tavern.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “You and Annette, eh?”

Porthos nodded earnestly. “Indeed. I could look at her for days and never tire of her.”

“You sure looking at her is all you want to do?”

Porthos looked at him sourly. “You’ve been hanging about with Aramis too much.”

Another shot rang out, this one fainter than the last and both men drew to a halt. As one they looked in the direction of the sound.

“A second shot,” D’Artagnan said, his voice full of dread as he fidgeted in the saddle. “There was only supposed to be one.” He looked at the larger man next to him, the question and answer playing in his eyes.

“Could mean only one thing,” Porthos stated grimly as he kicked his horse with greater urgency this time. “Trouble!”

 

 

Aramis managed to get his head above the surface, blinking furiously, trying to clear the river water from his eyes. He took stock of his predicament and grimaced at where the rope bit into his side.

The rope was taught where it was anchored to the tree, thankfully, his body being buffeted by the force of the water as he tried to regain his senses. The water had not only carried him well past his first intended mark, but the rock where Athos was pinned. Water dripped down his head and he licked at his lips, the familiar tang of blood mixing with the dirty water confirming his suspicions that he’d hit his head on something when he’d been swept down river.

Affording himself no more time to lick his wounds or lament the demise of his well-thought-out plan of letting the river do most of the work for him, he reached out with stiff, swollen fingers, wrapped them around the rope and pulled. The first attempt was dismal, but the next and the one after that were more productive.

Getting slack in the rope moved him closer to the first rock but also eased the pull on his midsection and for that, he was eternally grateful. Floating his legs out behind him, he began kicking, using his legs to push against the pull of the water. Between the tugging and kicking, he managed to get closer to the first rock, looping the slack he created, around his wrist to secure it in preparation for the next.

Aramis settled into a rhythm. Pull. Wrap. Kick. Pull. Wrap. Kick. It became his focus.

The beats in between left Aramis time to think and the absence of his gloves were his greatest regret. He hadn’t thought to keep hold of them when he’d dropped his weapons belt. That, he realized as he watched the ropes squeeze the flesh of his fingers, making the skin a funny blue and white color, had been poorly planned.

He pulled harder, feeling his shoulders burn and spitting out more of the brackish river water that splashed his face relentlessly. Blinking the water from his eyes at every successful inch forward, Aramis turned his head to look at the larger rock, hoping for a glimpse of Athos when he lost his rhythm.

The marksman’s hand missed and did not grasp the rope tight enough and before he realized it, the water shot him backward once more. At the last minute, the rope coiled around his wrist caught and he was jerked to a stop.

The rope burned where it dug into his flesh but Aramis was able to wrap his free hand around it and alleviate the strain as he pulled enough to get both hands working, tugging to make up the distance he’d lost.

It felt like an eternity, and he was exhausted beyond measure, but he finally made it to the first rock. The closer he got to it, however, the more the water seemed more determined to deny him victory— the torrent around it pummeling him ruthlessly.

The current behind the rock was nearly nonexistent. With no opposing force, he moved to take shelter and once there, pressed his body to the stone, using his legs to get in close. He felt the force of the water ease quickly and once there, tucked himself close, resting his back and head against the boulder, panting.

While fearful of what he would see when he opened his eyes, Aramis steeled himself for the sight he dreaded most, and lolled his head to his right. He slowly opened his eyes and gasped.

Athos was not only still lodged up against the rock, but his eyes were open. He was looking directly at Aramis.

Aramis did not trust his watery gaze immediately and blinked several times before smiling, a nearly hysterical laugh cutting through the ever-present drone of the water. Elation was soon tempered. Athos did not return his joy but instead, his pale, blue tinged face was drawn up in a deep, resentful glower.

“What?” Aramis shouted across the current, a distance at which he was sure to hear. “You think I would leave you?” He shook his head and smiled tremulously when Athos rolled his eyes.

“You’re a fool!” Athos shouted back.

Aramis smiled wider. “Sorry… can’t hear you.” He gestured to the water that rushed angrily between them. “You’ll have to come tell me that to my face!”

Athos merely shook his head in frustration, his lips moving as he looked away. Aramis could not hear what he was saying but he’d no doubt they were not complimentary.

Ignoring Athos’ reluctance for the moment, Aramis felt at the rope around his midsection. It was still knotted securely but had ridden up above his sash and had become considerably tighter, likely made so when he’d been snapped to the end of his tether earlier. He noted too, as he felt around, that at some point in all the swirling, pulling, and jerking against the coarse fiber, it had torn through his shirt and the line had started to cut into his flesh. For the first time he was thankful for the chill of the water – for while it pained him some, he was too numb to feel more than a dull sting.

“Well?” Athos shouted. “Now what?”

Aramis continued to pay him no mind, moving his fingers next along the outstretched line where it bowed against the current and connected them to the shore. He managed to gather roughly four arms lengths of slack before there was no more to be had.

“Aramis!”

The marksman looked again to the distance that separated him from Athos, his mind turning quickly. The five paces that separated them might as well be fifty as there wasn’t enough rope to reach his friend. But if they could meet somewhere in the middle… It would feel like far more for what he now felt compelled to ask…

“Aramis…?”

“You’re going to move toward me, stretch as far as you can then I’ll grab you before you can be swept away.”

“You—what?” Athos’ eyes went comically wide. “You’re serious?”

“I know it sounds risky—”

“Not for you. You have a rope!”

“We have no other choice.”

“Yes we do.” Athos eyed the bank. “We do what you should have done before instead of risking your life. We wait for Porthos and d’Artagnan to find us.”

“Look at your hands!” Aramis shouted angrily. “Now look at my face. This red color on my cheeks is not due to my blushing nature… you know what that means. If we stay in here much longer, the cold will take us as surely as the current.”

Aramis had never seen Athos lose that well-bred cool, so long ingrained in his upbringing, until today. It was eroding away with the swift moving water that threatened to become his grave, the uncontrolled pitch, roll and tumble that had carried for leagues when he likely thought he would die this way. And the moment Aramis was asking for now, to risk doing it all again, punctuated as he slapped the water, teeth gritted in anger.

The swordsman mumbled something that Aramis didn’t quite catch. “Athos...?”

“I said fine…” he yelled back at him. “If we live through this—”

“When.” Aramis countered as his hands moved beneath the water to test the rope and gather the slack, intending to let it out as was needed.

“I just may shoot you.”

“Agreed,” Aramis shrugged a bit, squaring his feet against the rock, preparing to move but never taking his eyes off his friend. “Seems counterproductive to our survival but if violence gives you courage, you may shoot me twice...”

Athos was doing the same, making the same preparations, searching the rock with his hand for a possible place get a hold. “Don’t tempt me…”

“Ready?”

Athos nodded. “No.”

“I’m going to step off on three. You go on my command. Understood?”

Athos gave an angled nod of understanding. “I really hate you.”

“I’m too pretty to hate,” Aramis countered with a grin. “On three. Remember wait for my—”

“Go, damn you!”

There was barely a hair's breadth between their movements. Aramis leaped toward Athos and shouted for him to reach mere seconds after. Their hands brushed but the undertow—Aramis had all but forgotten its grip and power—it tore Athos abruptly away. Feeling the air leave his lungs, the marksman shouted angrily watching in horror as his friend disappeared from sight. Just as before.

Aramis hit the current and was immediately pulled along next. But he held fast to the slack in the rope while craning his neck, searching for Athos.

A moment later, Athos flailed to the surface. Gathering his legs beneath him, Aramis launched himself once more, this time toward Athos who had managed to get himself turned, hands trying desperately to grapple anything in Aramis’ direction, eyes wide in that same terror he’d seen earlier.

This time, however, Aramis would not lose sight of him.

The coil of rope spun out of his hand as he rose out of the water, swimming with all his might to make up for the rapidly moving current that, for the first time, was not moving fast enough for him. He had no idea how much length was left, and if it came to it, he was prepared to simply untie that knot and go after his friend.

The motion of his limbs so long submerged in frigid water set his arms and legs on fire. He would not lose Athos. He would not. He’d trusted him. This had been his idea. He would not let him down.

“Ar—” cough “‘Mis—”

Aramis heard him over the roar of the water and raised his head. “Athos—” he was right in front of him, one hand extended to him and Aramis did the same, shoved one hand out, stretching his body along the current, feeling the pull on his sides. He tucked his other arm tight to his side, straighten his legs out behind him and found new speed in the current.

“Gr—” he spat out water. “Kick! Grab my ha-hand!”

Athos face pinched in concentration. His feet and legs kicked at the current, trying to find push against the pull, while Aramis pushed against the shove.

Success was measured in inches. Each one tested when Athos stopped swimming long enough to test his reach, only to come up short. Then he swam again, legs kicking furiously behind him, another inch made, another attempt to get a hold, this time Aramis felt his fingers graze his hand.

Aramis flailed for him… nothing.

The marksman growled in combined frustration and determination, shoving his hand out harder, kicking his legs in frenzied resolve. Then he felt it. The solid hold as Athos grabbed the top of his hand. First one, then after a tenacious flurry of legs kicking at the water, Aramis doing the same, his other grabbed the bottom of Aramis’ wrist and held tight.

Aramis, his palm down, grasped him back.

They were suddenly jerked to a stop. Aramis felt his wrist snap, the pain and shock traveling up his arm like a sword shoved up through his palm, skewering his arm. The jolt was nearly enough to make him lose his hold, but Athos saw the moment something changed in his eyes and held tight as Aramis howled in pain, the force of it making him clamp his hand all the harder on his friend’s wrist.

Water rushed in his mouth and he spat at it manically. It was too much all at once. The fear of drowning, the utter panicked need to stop the pain as the rope continued to pull on his tormented limb, nearly robbing his senses. Then he felt a hand on his face as he dangled there in the water, the current rocking against him, bouncing around him, demanding to go through him…

“Aramis!”

The voice pulled at him, grounded him. “Aramis… Listen to me!”

And he did. Aramis raised his head and looked into the eyes of his friend. A man he’d known for nearly a decade. Water slapped at his face, making him blind to all else, but he never took his eyes off Athos. “I’m— I’m here…” he panted.

“Broken…?” Athos panted as he spat more of the river as they bobbed in the current, the rope tied to Aramis ruined hand the only thing keeping them anchored.

The thought turned Aramis gut so he tried to push it aside. “I thin-k so. Or dislocated.”

“We’ve got to head back. Get to shore.”

Aramis read it in his eyes. The journey would be excruciating for him and the marksman saw the apology in his gaze but nodded. “Together…”

Athos nodded and reached for the rope, Aramis doing the same with his free hand and together they pulled. It worked, though Athos did most of the work with two working hands, and they both kicked their legs, pushing to a constantly ravaging current. Aramis took up the slack with his good hand and insisted Athos wrap some of it around his wrist, just in case. The former Comte didn’t argue.

 

 

"Isn't that Athos' horse?" D'Artagnan halted, pointing.

"Sure is," Porthos murmured, urging his horse past the Gascon and catching up with Roger. Lathered and not the least bit happy to see the larger Musketeer, the animal tossed his head, reins slapping about the air wildly, the leather straps matching the horse's mood.

Roger bared his teeth when Porthos reached for his bridle and the big man withdrew his hand quickly, narrowly escaped losing a finger. "I've never seen him act like this before."

D'Artagnan was out of his saddle and walking cautiously toward the skittish horse, hands patting the air between them, trying to soothe it. "Easy now..." the boy called quietly as he approached, noting the thick mud trail covering its hind legs. “Looks as if he slipped. Could be what got his dander up."

"Think Athos fell off?" Porthos twisted in the saddle, scanning the area for their possibly fallen comrade while d'Artagnan moved closer to the spooked animal. "Don't see Aramis or his horse about either."

Through careful maneuvering and whispered words of calm, Roger held as d'Artagnan moved in close enough to obtain one of the loose reins, even then taking up the slack slowly so as not to startle him. Roger, however, seemed in need of the comfort offered and moved forward, nickering as he nuzzled the Gascon's outstretched hand.

"I need to look around," Porthos turned his horse, eyes locked on the river scant yards from where they stood, his face grim. "See if you can keep him calm before you move him."

A shrill whinny cut the air and Roger's interest was piqued immediately as he answered. Twisting in the saddle, Porthos saw another horse, moving toward him, head high, ears peeked, legs high in an excited trot. Stable mates, these horses had a sense for one another, he realized, watching as Aramis' horse beat a path toward him – the stirrups flapping as he moved, not anchored by his rider.

Unlike Roger, Porthos had no trouble catching Fidget's reins. D'Artagnan moved up and patted the horse on the neck, before inspecting the saddle. "No blood on the saddle, that's good," the boy offered before looking up at his companion curiously.

Porthos didn't respond, his gaze locked on the river. "Tie the horses off and meet me at the river's edge." He didn't wait for a response, dug heels into his horse's' sides and took off.

 

 

“I’m— n-not going anywhere near w-water again, at least for a year after th-this,” Athos muttered, his lips trembling.

“Af—after th-is you’re supposed to sh—shoot me.”

“Yes. After this.”

They’d discovered if they move at an angle along the current, they’d reach the shore faster. Not easier necessarily, for the current was less accommodating to any of their plans, as they’d come to realize. But, the idea of it cut the distance considerably and that was the goal.

Their angled trajectory was less of a straight line and more likened to a night in a tavern, Athos deep in his cups and trying to make his way back to his rooms afterward. Athos bristled when Aramis voiced the comparison, arguing he could walk a straight line regardless of how much wine he’d put away. In truth, the marksman had to agree. Athos was a drinker of a professional level and alcohol rarely had much effect on him now.

“If-f you stopped d-drinking. What do you suppose would h-happen to you?”

“I’d die.”

Aramis looked at him. “Then don’t. Don’t want you died.”

“You mean dead.”

“That either. Would have made this whole day a ter-terrible waste.”

It went on like that as they worked their way to shore. The shore… like some mirage for a man dying of thirst in the desert only, at this point, a desert seemed endlessly preferable.

Aramis kept his eyes on the rope as they moved. They were already exhausted and shivering, the struggle to reach the shore had become a living Hell, the water a constant tormentor. For every two pulls forward, they were knocked back one, but fought to make it up in another two, another yank of the slack. Another inch of ground made, before it slipped away, the force and the cold undermining their efforts, sapping their strength.

Both men fought to keep their path steady, side by side, anchoring one another physically, mentally and in every way that counted. A kick forward, another, a pull of the rope, ground made and lost and if it were not for the inches of slack newly added to the coil that now acted as a sort of splint around Aramis’ wrist, they would think it all in vain.

But it was not, so they kept at it. Another two, another pull of the rope. Kick. Pull, and again.

Another Kick. And ano—

The sound of crashing upriver caught Aramis’ attention and he slowed. It grew louder and he stopped, held the rope tight and stared upstream. “Athos…” he called when he realized Athos’ head remained bent to the line, pulling.

“What..?” Athos stopped, gaze following Aramis’ upriver.

Together they watched as something large and dark rounded the bend in the river. Tossed and turning in the waves, it careened unchecked in the turbulent water. When it turned, Aramis gasped. A large, nearly intact tree hurdled down the rapids right for them.

They needed to get out of the way. He looked at the distance to the shore and knew it was no use. They wouldn’t be able to move fast enough to get there. That left them only one option.

“The slack,” he swallowed shouting at Athos. “Take the slack off your wrist. Hurry!”

Athos needed no further urging. He quickly uncoiled the length of rope and Aramis followed suit, the water already grabbing their feet and lifting them as if knowing of their haste. For once on their side.

The last of it fell away from Aramis broken limb. He tucked it in tight to his chest and grabbed on to his friend. Athos did the same with him as they were once more pulled back out into the more tumultuous waters. Struggling to keep their heads above the torrent, moving further from the shore.

Further from safety...

 

 

“Aramis!”

“Athos!”

D’Artagnan and Porthos lowered their hands and listened for a reply. Even the slightest sound would do. But when none came they dropped their hands and moved along the river’s edge, both of them locked in a silent battle against doubt and their deepest fears realized.

No. Porthos shook his head as his eyes scanned the river, while he walked along the water’s edge. They could not die. Not this way. Soldiers died in battle, not in some overgrown stream out in the middle of nowhere. This was not how it ended for them. He’d not believe it.

Something tickled his thumb and he gripped Aramis’ hat tighter in his hand, not daring to take his eyes off the river. That audacious feather brushed against his hand, oddly soothing to his troubled mind. When they’d come upon the marksman’s gear, his doublet, pistols and weapons belt, they’d gathered them and piled them near a tree to come back for after… after they’d found them.

But when the larger musketeer had seen his hat, he’d kept it. The brim of it fisted tightly in one hand as he’d stalked along the river searching. D’Artagnan had wisely kept quiet about it.

 

 

Aramis spat out more water and cursed.

It wasn’t Aramis’ nature to do so, but their predicament bordered on ridiculous and infuriating all in one breath. They’d gotten so close to shore only to find themselves back where they’d started, this time instead of behind the rock, they were in front of it. And the only thing keeping the current from crushing them, was the very tree they’d been desperate to avoid in the first place.

The tree was no longer Aramis main concern. When the current took them again, it had whipped them angrily into the rapids, spinning them around to the point that Aramis lost Athos for a moment. While he’d managed to reclaim him, it was not before the swordsman smashed his head on a rock and lost consciousness.

The second after Aramis secured an unresponsive Athos back in his arms, the tree twisted in the water and shoved into them, forcing them even more off course. Not that there was much of a course to begin with, but there had been an illusion of a course that Aramis had rather liked, especially considering all the frustrating lack of control at having been at the river’s mercy for so long.

So, when Aramis had seen the rock they were heading toward, he’d held Athos tight, intent on protecting him from smashing into yet another rock, only to have his wrist absorb the blow instead. He was all but certain the thing was broken. It didn’t hurt nearly so bad as his side, which he was sure was bleeding profusely where one of the branches had ripped a deep line in his flesh along his ribcage.

So really, Aramis was due for a blessing. Or fifty. He would atone for it later, if there was, a later. Or in person.

No, Aramis shook his head where he rested it against the rock, it was not time to die. This was not how he—or any of them—died. It was to be on some forgotten battlefield, as he and Porthos had discussed on many occasions.

One of the branches shifted – the one shoving hard at his shoulder – but he didn’t dare move to relieve the pressure. If he did, the trunk of the tree that was holding back much of the force of the water from most assuredly crushing his chest, would be free to do so. So really, becoming a pincushion for the branches was preferable.

They would have to think of someth—no. He. He would have to think of something because Athos wasn’t thinking of anything and they could not stay here forever. And he would. Eventually. For now, he could rest, keep Athos’ head above water, and just rest, because God, he was so very tired. And cold. And wet.

And hallucinating. His mind must be playing tricks on him or perhaps his waterlogged ears were because he swore he could hear…

“P’rths…” Aramis cleared his throat, threw back his head and tried again. “Porthos!”

 

 

“Hold,” Porthos shouted and stilled. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

Seconds ticked by and there. A faint shout… “That.” Porthos scanned the water and slowly started to walk, keeping his foot-falls as quiet as he could.

D’Artagnan watched him long seconds, listening until he threw out his arms, shaking his head. Then he too stilled. “I… I hear,” he canted his head and looked at the water. “That’s—”

“Aramis,” Porthos murmured as he took off running along the water. “Aramis!” he shouted, out of his periphery noting d’Artagnan keeping pace.

“Aramis! Athos!” he called next.

They hadn’t gone more than a dozen paces before stopping. The voice could not have carried much further than that. But there was no one. Just piles of debris clinging to rocks, the rolling river splashing against them, sending spray up as it collided and sped past the smooth stones.

“They’ve got to be here,” Porthos looked around anxiously, starting to move, his stride shorter. “Aramis! Athos!”

“There!” d’Artagnan shouted, pointing at a large tree in the water.

Porthos’ gaze followed the direction of his hand and he saw it. A piece of stained blue cloth, wet and filthy, but oh so familiar. Aramis’ sash. It was draped haphazardly over the top of one of the branches. It clung to the wood, the intent a desperate attempt to be seen.

“Aramis!” he had a foot in the water when a hand grabbed his shoulder.

“Porthos, no!” d’Artagnan shouted. “You can’t!”

Porthos spun on him, ready to shake him off because he would not waste time arguing. Then he turned again and looked at the water and felt his heart plummet.

No. No he couldn’t. Not like this.

Porthos gritted his teeth stared at the tree, trying to catch a glimpse of his friend. “Aramis!” he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Can you hear me?”

A beat, or five passed, more than either of them cared for when an answer came.

“‘B’-bout time!”

Porthos would have smiled but there was still the matter of…

“Athos is with me!” Aramis called back. “Unconscious but alive.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan all but deflated in relief.

“We’ll get ropes and come out to you!” d’Artagnan called back, Porthos already turning to go back to where they had left their horses.

“No!” A wet cough followed the order. The tree rustled, wood snapped and they could now see Aramis’ face peeking through. “Too risky..,” he shook his head, “…debris e-everywhere.”

Aramis sounded rough. Weak. Failing. But that was nothing compared to how he looked. From what Porthos could see of his face it was pale, and had a sickly grey tinge to it. Porthos could not make out Athos from this distance but he was sure he fared no better. Clearly, whatever they were going to do, they had better figure it out now.

“You’ll…” Aramis coughed harshly. “You’ll have to cut… cut the rope.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan shared a curious look before facing Aramis once more. “Rope?” d’Artagnan shouted. “What rope?”

It was quiet a moment. “Tied just up river to… w-willow tree.”

Porthos watched as D’Artagnan moved over next to the tree and stared at the base before reaching his hands below water. “Aramis…” Porthos called to his friend, “what’s the rope for?”

“I— Athos fell from his horse. Used it to get to him.”

“Got it!”

Porthos glanced at the Gascon as he lifted some of the submerged twine then back to stare at Aramis incredulously. “So that’s the only thing keeping you two from being swept away... and you want us to cut it?” he finished already shaking his head. “Have you bloody lost your bloody mind?”

“Can’t you swim under the tree?” d’Artagnan shouted back. “Then all you do is hold on and we’ll pull you both in!”

Porthos nodded. “I like that idea better,” he started to move over to where the young musketeer stood.

“Can’t!” Aramis coughed some more, his voice grating, tiring from having to outshout the river. “Not with Athos unconscious. You’ll have to cut us loose. Take our ch-chances downriver.”

“Porthos…?”

“No…” Porthos was shaking his head, hearing the conciliation in the younger man’s voice. “No.” The larger musketeer turned to look at d’Artagnan. “No. We can’t.”

“They’re wedged out there,” D’Artagnan argued carefully. “And fading fast. There’s really no better option.”

“Just lots of bad ones…” Porthos muttered. He hesitated only a moment more before finally giving a nod of his head. “Fine.” He pointed at d’Artagnan. “But you give me a count of fifteen to get downriver before you cut it. Hear me?”

“Right,” d’Artagnan agreed and Porthos knew the lad needed no further explanation. The Gascon stepped off the bank and into the water to get hold of the rope, while drawing his main gauche and waited.

Watching the lad, Porthos felt his heart plummet at what they were about to do.

“Aramis…!” Porthos shouted. The marksman had been fiddling with something and turned at his call. “I’ll be well down river, waiting for you. You see me reach for you, you grab my hand, you hear me?”

“I’d be disappointed if you weren’t,” Aramis shouted back, his voice hoarse. “But you’d best get a running start!”

Porthos nodded and turned to leave. “Fifteen!” he shouted over his shoulder at the boy and then he was running as fast as his feet could carry him, his heart in his throat and his stomach in knots.

This had to work. Porthos had to find somewhere he could get to them. He had to…

 

 

D’Artagnan crouched in the water, counting. Aramis broke out into a coughing fit. He listened as it carried on for far too long before stopping.

“Aramis..?” he called.

There were a few more intermittent coughs before he answered. “Cut the rope d’Artagnan,” he said hoarsely.

D’Artagnan swallowed. “How bad is it?”

“Knowing won’t do any good…” he said through more coughing.

D’Artagnan looked down at the rope in his hand and the parrying dagger in the other. He’d no idea what to say next, but his fifteen seconds were up and yet, he found he needed to say something before. “Aramis…I—”

“Cut the rope, d’Artagnan,” Aramis interrupted, his voice no longer demanding but pleading. “I cannot do this…m-much longer.”

D’Artagnan sawed into the rope. He dammed the river. Cursed the rains that bloated its banks. Then he called on whatever God Aramis believed in to save his friends, watching as the rope all but disintegrated and broke in half.

 

 

Aramis immediately began reeling in the loose rope, knowing time was of the essence. He no longer shook as he had before and he knew that was a bad thing. And the cough was getting worse...

His one good hand was sluggish and clumsy but before they’d been loosed into the raging water, he’d managed to draw Athos close, facing him, their chests together. Then, as best he could, he looped the tether under the swordsman’s arms, then back around himself, under his arms twice. With the remaining three feet of rope, Aramis wrapped it around his broken wrist— the cold having long since driven out any pain— several times, before knotting it off. In a way, the layers would act as a sort of brace.

He was glad Athos was unconscious for this bit. The man had suffered one unchecked, uncontrolled ride down this river and this time he would have no memory of it. Aramis only prayed that Porthos found somewhere further down to get to them.

When he felt he’d done all he could, Aramis looked at the river bank. D’Artagnan stood there, feet shoulder width apart, hands fisted at his side, eyes pinched and a crease in his forehead. Aramis knew that stance well. It spoke of frustration and fear.

“Go, d’Artagnan!”

The boy nodded but it was hesitant and lacked his usual bravado. “Give me ten seconds!” he shouted and with one last glance, turned and ran.

Aramis didn’t allow his gaze to linger. Using his good hand he worked over to the edge of the rock and waited. He sent another prayer Heavenward and his eyes shot open when he lost track of how long they’d been closed.

He knew then he could not delay any longer. Ten seconds or not. They had to go.

Taking a breath more out of habit than for practicality, Aramis slid his back along the rock, determined to go down backward as much as he could to shield Athos. It was a slow drift at first, rising and falling with the churning waves, still abated from where the tree shunted their force.

Far too soon the swifter water took hold and Aramis could not help but gasp as they were sped along mercilessly, bouncing and spinning in a tumultuous ride down river. 

 

 

 

Porthos rounded the bend and nearly tripped at the sight before him. The bridge. There was no joy, no moment of elation. Celebration would not come until he had Aramis and Athos on dry land and breathing. The bridge may be close but there was much further yet to go.

At the little road that lead to the bridge, he turned, d’Artagnan breaking from the trees filling his periphery. His feet thundered on the planks as he ran across the structure to reach its center before stopping, chest heaving, eyes locked on the rolling river, searching for his friends.

D’Artagnan reached his side moments later. “I hated that,” the Gascon panted.

“Had to be done,” Porthos grumbled before dropping his gaze down to the water as it swirled and churned passed beneath their feet.

“How are we doing this?”

“It’s maybe five feet from the bridge to the surface of the water. When they come into view shout, wave, do whatever we have to but get Aramis’ attention.”

“If he’s conscious…” He glanced at Porthos. “Then what?”

“Then,” Porthos ignored him, “once we’ve an idea of where they’ll pass under, we get Aramis to reach for us, you drop, hang over the side, far as you can and grab him as he gets near.”

D’Artagnan looked down at the water. “Five feet… Porthos, I’m tall but that’s still a long way to down. I’ll have to stretch almost my entire body and somehow remain connected to the bridge—”

“I’ll anchor you.” He glanced at the Gascon. “You just drop and get hold of’m, let me do the rest.”

“What?” The boy looked incredulously at him. “I may get him but I surely won’t be able to lift their weight.”

“You don’t have to.” Porthos met his gaze. “Just grab on and don’t let go. I’ll pull all of you up out of the water.” He caught the boy in his steely gaze. “No doubts, d’Artagnan. Don’t even think’em much less speak’em. Understood?”

The younger Musketeer stared at him a moment then nodded mutely.

With a plan in mind, Porthos turned to watch the river again and wait. His gut churned like the water below, and he could feel it, the rushing river battering against the bridge’s base, buried deep into the bedrock— or so he hoped. If not, the thing will be washed away and likely them with it.

“There!” d’Artagnan shouted anxiously, pointing upriver.

Their friends’ bodies shot out and around the riverbend and spun in a crazy rapid ride, speeding toward the bridge. D’Artagnan immediately started calling to them, waving his arms.

Porthos joined him. “Aramis! Here!” he walked up and down the bridge, flailing his arms. “Hey! Over here!”

The marksman, with Athos clutched before him, swiveled his head around and Porthos was certain he caught sight of him before the current spun and twisted his body once again.

“He saw us,” d’Artagnan called out breathlessly. “I’m almost certain.”

“Stay in front of me, watch them as they draw close and follow, I’ll be a pace behind you the entire time,” he shouted, glancing at d’Artagnan before returning his gaze to the Musketeers careening wildly toward them. “Once you’re sure, drop and slide down the bridge. Don’t wait on me.” He stepped back out of the boy’s peripheral vision. “I’ll have you, you just have them.”

They stalked the bridge, d’Artagnan in front, Porthos shadowing him, the pair of them pacing, shifting alignment to match the trajectory of their friends, waiting, tensing for that moment, that one second that would mean life or death for Aramis and Athos. For d’Artagnan as well, if he went over and Porthos was not able to hold him. Porthos stayed close, just behind, but not too far.

 

 

Their path in the rolling waters seemed to even out as they got closer to the bridge. Whether from the large posts that anchored it to the river bottom diverting the water, or just plain luck, d’Artagnan did not question it. He simply dropped to his chest and slid over the edge of the bridge, following them, his confidence growing as he felt the powerful grip Porthos had on his legs and hold fast.

Just before reaching his position, Aramis’ hand shot up, extending his arm as high as he could.

D’Artagnan did likewise, strained toward him, his left hand still clinging to the lip of the bridge surface, ignoring how it cut into his ribs. He felt Porthos arms tighten about his calves, wood creaking to his left and right as he planted his heels against that same strip of wood for an anchor.

Focused on Aramis, d’Artagnan willed the marksman to make the connection as they neared, their bodies still swirling on occasion but moving slower now.

“Take my hand!” he shouted, straining, even from his neck as he extended nearly the entire length of his body.

Their fingers bumped and missed. Aramis’ other hand dropped from where it had cradled Athos and paddled at the water in an attempt to maintain their current range. When their hands came closer again, Aramis thrust upward even higher, heaving himself up to reach for him.

It was just enough. D’Artagnan threw all caution to the wind, released the edge of the bridge and flung both hands down. He felt his body drop and it would have unnerved him more than it did save for his determination to get to his friends. He snatched once more at the extended arm, this time feeling solid flesh beneath his fingers. He quickly closed his hands around Aramis’ forearm and clamped down tight.

“I’ve got you!” d’Artagnan shouted at Aramis, but the marksman’s eyes were squeezed shut and he only nodded, mouth in a tight line. “Porthos!” d’Artagnan twisted his head slightly to be heard above the roar of the water. “Pull us up!”

D’Artagnan realized then that Porthos had him only by his ankles. The crushing grip was painful, but if Aramis and Athos could endure, so could he.

They were drawn back up in inches and d’Artagnan looked into Aramis pale, drawn face, hoping to instill some encouragement in him. But by the looks of him, keeping still and maintaining a firm grip on Athos was all the marksman could do to not make the ascent harder on the boy than what it already was. Still, d’Artagnan’s shoulders burned from the pull and the unrelenting weight, and when he felt his hands cramping, the Gascon closed his eyes and refused to give in to fatigue.

Then he felt Aramis slip.

D’Artagnan opened his eyes wide in alarm. Hoping he’d been mistaken, he stared at where his hands held to Aramis—at the only lifeline that kept their friends from certain death. Then he saw them slip further. He was losing them.

“NO!” d’Artagnan shouted and tried to tighten his grip, but the water left Aramis’ flesh slippery. “Porthos!” he shouted over one shoulder. “I—I’m losing—them!”

He tried to heave them up, but nothing. His attempt was not good enough. He lacked the strength. He lacked the leverage.

The weight of both his brothers dropped in d’Artagnan’s grasp, another inch lower. Another inch closer to the swirling water below. Panic seized d’Artagnan’s chest as Aramis continued slipping from his hold. Another shout of desperation burst from his mouth and he calculated a gamble and saw no other alternative. He pulled with all his might to lift them slightly, while releasing one hand to reach further down. It was just enough as his free hand grasped and tangled the marksman’s collar, his fingers gripping the material tight and holding fast.

Aramis looked at him and smiled, but said nothing.

Wood suddenly shattered on either side of them. D'Artagnan had moment of terror that the structure was about to collapse and drag them all down. Then he realized he was being dragged back and away from the water. He held on, the weight pulling harder than before on his shoulders and when he thought his strength had abandoned him, a hand grabbed the waist of his britches and pulled. They slipped back again, then another set of hands reached down, trying to grab the weight that threatened to pull his shoulders from their sockets.

D’Artagnan turned to see Porthos next to him.

“I’m here!” Porthos shouted and thrust further down. D’Artagnan’s hand held the marksman’s forearm, so Porthos closed one of his big hands over Aramis’ hand and clutched it tight. “Gothcha!” he yelled triumphantly.

At the same time, Aramis shouted in pain. His body went rigid for a moment and then he was unconscious.

There was no time to consider what had happened. Instead it spurred them on. One more mighty heave and Aramis and Athos’ limp bodies dragged fully onto the bridge, the pair of them rolling to one side, unconscious. Porthos and d’Artagnan collapsed next to them in a heap.

D’Artagnan fell to his side, shoulders sagging. He watched through watery eyes as Porthos jumped to his feet. Their friends weren’t moving. D’Artagnan could not tell if Aramis’ eyes were open but from this angle he could see Athos’ were not. He looked so pale… so… lifeless. “Are they…?” he panted.

Porthos knelt between them and placed a hand on each of their necks and d’Artagnan held his breath.

“Breathing!” he shouted jubilantly.

D’Artagnan looked up at Porthos and smiled. “Alive,” he panted.

 

 

Aramis was drowning.

Waves battered his exhausted body from all sides, crashing over his head, their watery fingers pulling him under, filling his mouth, his lungs, ears, eyes, nose, robbing him of his breath. And no matter how hard he struggled against them, he could not prevail.

Caught in their grasp, they pushed and shoved at his body, pulling him left, then right, bouncing him off rocks, crushing his bones and no matter how hard he fought, he could not break the hold they had on him. He couldn’t breathe!

Voices called all around- familiar voices and he struggled harder still to reach them.

Aramis was jolted awake, gasping. He struggled to draw breath, even the most shallow an impossible task, despite the soothing hand on his back and the familiar voice seeking to calm his panic.

He got one, then another before the air collided with something in his lungs and tried to sit up, and the pain in his side made him regretted it instantly.

“Hey, hey…” a familiar voice soothed, “easy, Aramis. I got you. Hang on...”

Hands helped him ease up and roll to his side, clutching his left hand to his chest as he emptied the contents of his stomach on the ground. His eyes watered, his stomach muscles contracting. The burn was intense and he gagged before what felt like buckets of river water poured from his mouth. It seemed to take forever and when it was done, he would have collapsed into it, if not for the strong hands that held him suspended as he hung there, trying to catch his breath.

“All done, yeah?” Porthos asked from behind him. “That wasn’t as much as the last time. Going to get all that river water out of you yet.”

“L-las’ time?” Aramis panted, eyes closed, head hanging. He hadn’t the strength to do more.

“Yup,” Porthos rubbed his back. “You done?”

Aramis nodded feebly then felt himself being rolled back and reclined into a cocoon of warmth. Porthos pulled him in and returned to running his hands vigorously up and down the marksman’s arms.

“Do-don’t ‘rmbr other times…” he said shivering as he burrowed more into the warmth radiating around him.

“Not surprised,” the larger man’s voice rumbled just behind and beneath him. “You were barely conscious the other three times.”

Aramis lacked the energy to make sense of it all. He’d not remembered the other times and how one's body succumbed to such a violent expulsion of water from one’s stomach and not remember it, was too much for his exhausted mind to take in at present. All he knew or cared about at the moment was that the cocoon that engulfed him was that of his friend for more years than his exhausted mind could count. Once he was settled, eyes closed, he felt hands rubbing up and down his arms, the heat increasing, chasing away the tremors and making him drowsy, as sore muscles relaxed into the friction where he drifted off once more…

In the darkness, voices drifted around him. Porthos chuckling at d’Artagnan’s comment about the river water raising quite the stench on them and they’d need baths the moment they returned to the garrison. He breathed them, each of them, his friends, the world drifting around him; Porthos, d’Artagnan and—

“Athos!” he choked out, voice grating as he tried to rock upright. But his body refused to obey.

“Hey—” Porthos held his upper arms down, pulling his back against his chest. “He’s fine, Aramis. Athos is fine.” He held him carefully, not too tight until he was certain he would remain. “Now, be still. Quit floppin’ about or you’ll pull the stitches I worked so hard on.”

“Or ruin the splint I placed on your wrist,” d’Artagnan called sardonically. “I’ve never set a bone before,” he blanched, a small shiver running up his back. “And I hope never to do it again.”

“Or wake me with your constant prattling,” the voice of the one he sought cut through his panic. “Though, I fear it is too late for that.”

Athos raised his head and stared blearily across the fire at him. He was propped against a rock, wrapped in wool blankets but sitting up. D’Artagnan crossed over to him and handed him a cup of something hot, probably warmed wine. He dropped to his knees to begin rubbing the swordsman's’ legs.

“Enough!” Athos snapped, waving a hand at d’Artagnan while pulling his knees into his chest. “You’ll rub the skin from my bones. Stop.”

D’Artagnan sat back on his heels and stared at their leader, hands on his hips. “You’ve got to warm up.”

“I’m fine,” Athos offered more evenly, huddling into the contents of the steaming cup in his hands. “This and the fire will suffice from here on,” he muttered taking a sip.

“Fine,” d’Artagnan threw up his hands in surrender before looking at Porthos. “He’s impossible.”

Porthos chuckled. “Athos is cranky when he’s been almost drowned.”

The swordsman sipped at the wine, his eyes never leaving Aramis. “D’Artagnan told me,” he admonished a few beats later. “You took a terrible risk. Again.”

“Yeah,” Porthos put in. “And what’s the idea of reaching out with a broken hand? Pretty sure we made it worse holding you over the water like that.”

“You two should talk,” d’Artagnan offered, his tone more sulky than angry as he knelt to fill another cup with some of the warmed wine. “I’m the one who had to cut the rope. God,” he shook his head as he stood and crossed over to Aramis, steam rising invitingly from the offered cup. “Make that two things I hope to never have to do again.”

Aramis took the cup with his good hand, supporting the bottom with his splinted one. He grinned despite the pain in his side, his wrist and in every muscle he possessed, as he once more looked at Athos, intent on getting his point across. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”

Athos huffed and looked away momentarily. “It was a fool's errand.”

“I can handle being a fool for the sake of my friends.” Aramis took a sip of the fluid and sighed. “Besides,” he continued, leaning back against his Porthos’ cushion for more warmth. “Pretty sure you’d be just as much of a fool if our situations had been reversed.”

Athos looked down into his cup for several long moments. “Here’s to fools then,” he finally said as he looked up to meet Aramis’ gaze. “Long may they save one another...for no one else will.”

Aramis raised his cup in return but didn’t get far before wincing in pain. “Blasted bone…” he hissed. “Remind me to break my left hand next time…”

“Next time?” Porthos inquired menacingly, his brow arching in alarm. “Once we reach the Inn, you best not be moving at all for the next few days, if you know what’s good for you, fool.”

D’Artagnan snapped at attention at the mention of the Inn.  
“What are you talking about,” d’Artagnan asked before turning to Athos. “What is he talking about?”

Athos sighed. “We are returning to the Inn. Aramis and I are in no shape to spend four days in the saddle. Since it’s closer, we’ll go back to the Inn and heal.”

“But—”

Athos held up a hand, silencing the boy. “You won’t be coming with us. In the morning, you are to continue the rest of the way alone. When you arrive, tell the captain of our delay. That is, unless you cannot handle four days alone on the trail…”

“Ha-ha” d’Artagnan mocked before settling down next to their leader, his back against the same stone, shoulder pressed against Athos, his proximity to keep him as warm as possible. He sniffed the air and his face wrinkled in disgust before turning to look at Athos and smelling again. “God… you reek.”

Aramis chuckled and Porthos frowned, uncertain what it was he’d suddenly found funny. “What?” he looked down at the man beneath him. “You don’t exactly smell of flowers. Maybe a good bath at the Inn when we get there...”

Dry, humorless laughter suddenly burst forth, catching d’Artagnan and Porthos off guard. They eyed the marksman curiously, looking for answers in what looked like the complete loss of their brother’s sanity. Athos, by contrast, wore a look upon his face that made one think of haunting spirits and terrifying visions of Hell.

D’Artagnan sat up. “What’s…wrong with him?” he looked at the larger musketeer.

Porthos shook his head. “‘Dunno...maybe all that water has made him batty.” He looked at Athos and did a double take. “What’s wrong with you two?”

D’Artagnan turned, Athos face was stone, his eyes flat and annoyed.

“You’re not getting me anywhere near a bath anytime within this century…” Athos hissed as he sank down into his blankets. “I will kill the first man who tries.”

Aramis chuckled as he settled against Porthos’ warm bulk. “Don’t fret, my friends. He threatened to shoot me as well.” He glanced at Athos fondly. “But if the water is warm, I doubt he will put up much of a fight.”

An amenable grunt was heard from the depths of Athos’ blanket.

Aramis closed his eyes and sighed contentedly. “Just promise me you will have dry clothes close at hand.”

Porthos’ chuckle rumbled beneath his ear as he drifted off to sleep.

 


	3. For Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis takes on an undercover assignment that seems perfect for his skill set. Duty and desire enter in a collision course, when the criminal element in this case is a beautiful, cunning woman. It’s just his good fortune then, that his brothers are there to watch his back. If only their timing were equally as fortunate...
> 
> ***Warning for sexual content.***

The tavern could be considered slightly above average, if only due to the existence of actual candles in the chandeliers, and the fact that the glasses —free of cracks— had actually been washed at some point during that week. It still smelled of spilled ale and unwashed bodies, but to the couple sitting by the corner table, none of those attributes mattered much, as they were entirely all too entertained in savoring each other's mouths to the fullest of their abilities.

“Perhaps,” the man whispered, his mouth sliding from hers to pepper her cheek with small kisses until he shamelessly settled for sucking on her ear, eliciting a none too subtle moan from the woman. “Perhaps it is time we move some place... more private?” he suggested, words hot and wet against her skin.

Breathless, she nodded, offering her long neck to his wandering lips. “I have lodgings not far from here,” she offered, pushing her heaving bosom against his chest. Even through the layers of clothing, the touch was nearly unbearable.

“I have a room upstairs,” he offered in return, hissing as she bit his lower lip. “...or not,” he countered.

“Not enough privacy in an Inn for what I have in mind for you,” she purred. She gazed deeply into his dark eyes, daring him to guess all of her wicked thoughts. “Come!”

Dazzled, the man looked around for a moment before reaching into his pocket for some coins. He tossed them carelessly onto the table, grabbed the last piece of bread from the plate and followed the woman outside with a smirk.

 

 

“Damn that man!” Porthos let out between his teeth, keeping up his pretense at playing cards. “Damn him all the way to hell and back!”

Athos cast a warning look over the rim of his cup. Although the tone had been too soft to carry amidst the racketing noise inside the tavern, one could never tell when eaves were being dropped. Secrecy, as it were, was paramount for their success. “Settle,” he advised. “We knew that this might happen... it is why d'Artagnan is standing outside, at the ready.”

“Still don't like it,” the other man muttered, finishing his drink in one large gulp. “Coming?” he asked, getting to his feet.

“Of course.”

 

 

She hadn't been lying about the proximity of the lodgings, even if the amount of twists and turns they took made the path seem longer. The privacy that had been promised had also been delivered in full. Too much of it, in fact.

The house barely stood out amidst the others, large but discreet, with most of the rooms devoid of furniture and empty except for the one on the top, where the woman led them to. Inside, the darkness soon gave way to the soft glow of candlelight, as she deftly lit their way.

“Come,” she beckoned again, picking up the last candle and taking his hand in hers.

A twin set of painted white doors gave way to the bedroom, a large bed taking up most of the space. It was a sturdy looking, wooden structure, with four posts of carved dark wood, of the likes only seen by royalty and the filthy rich. A luxurious red duvet covered the bedclothes, the material soft and silky. Inviting.

She touched the flame of the burning candle to the pile of wood sitting ready in the hearth, kindle quickly catching fire and adding its warm light to the room.

“Remove your clothes, Monsieur. All of them,” the woman commanded, one finger gently pushing him towards the bed. “Slowly,” she added with a wicked smile, nibbling her plump lower lip. “I wish to watch.”

Aramis gave her a mischievous smile of his own, bending down to tug at his boots before slowly pulling free the shirt tucked inside his breeches. The row of brass buttons followed, one by one, until the loose fabric of the leather pants fell down his legs before being swiftly kicked aside. “Am I to be left here then, cold and all alone?” he all but pouted, unlacing the first of the strings that held his small clothes together.

She paused, gazing at the small portion of skin he had uncovered, pondering. Once her decision had been made, she pulled at the strings of her corset, the golden cord slowly slipping from the numerous holes, like a wavering snake. “Wouldn't want you to feel lonely, now would we?”

“No, we would not,” he replied, trading the removal of his clothing for an eager lunge at her waist, pulling her close for a passionate kiss. “These things work so much better when there's two willing parties...” he whispered, breathlessly, trailing kisses down her neck and well into her exposed cleavage.

She pushed him away playfully, enough to grip the edge of his shirt and pull it up until the linen covered his face, his arms trapped behind his head. Through the thin cloth, she could see his intrigued gaze. “Trust me,” she whispered hotly into his lips, the linen between them growing moist with their heavy breathing, his naked chest brushing against her corset.

Aramis nodded, words escaping him as she guided him blindly to the bed, pushing him to lay down over the duvet, the silky material cold against his skin. When she finally released him from the constraints of his linen shirt, he noticed the length of cloth in her hands.

“Oh...” Aramis let out, a smile spreading across his lips. “I see...”

 

 

“I lost him,” the young man voiced, his words all but a whispered admission of guilt.

“What do you mean you ' _lost him_ '?” Porthos let out very carefully. “The man is six feet tall and wears a hat with the most ridiculous feather in all of Paris... how can you have lost him?”

D’Artagnan gave a shrug that would have been comical were it not for the stakes involved. His gaze darted around, mouth opening and closing… “I do—” he turned and waved a hand about the throng of mingling bodies. “I mean, he was—” he turned back to stare hopelessly at his friends before shrugging in defeat, “and then he wasn’t—”

“Never mind,” Athos cut in. “The important thing now is to find him before he gets himself into trouble.”

Porthos snorted. “Funny that,” he let out, sarcastically. “Trouble and Aramis…,” he scoffed, “have you ever seen the two of them apart?” He folded his arms across his chest. “Damn fool gets himself into more trouble than a street dog finds himself fleas!”

Athos sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache blossoming that he was sure wasn’t there before. “There simply is not enough wine in all of Paris...” he mumbled before opening his eyes and looking around. “When was the last time you saw him? Where?”

D’Artagnan chewed momentarily on his bottom lip, his gaze traveling the area a moment. “Down that way, near that old washery.”

“Then that is where we start,” Athos pointed out, decision made. “Gentlemen, keep your eyes alert. Make inquiries to anyone you think merits trust and with any luck—” Porthos huffed “—we shall find him prior to any damage being done, to his person... or my nerves.”

“I’m truly sorry I lost sight of him,” d’Artagnan offered, running a hand through his hair.

“Don’t fret,” Porthos assured him. “Aramis is perfectly capable of keeping himself out of trouble until we find him.”

It was the Gascon’s turn to look incredulous, his eyebrow raised. “ _Trouble and Aramis_ , you were saying?” he threw back with a grin. “Besides, I thought wooing beautiful women was what he did best.”

“It’s a toss between the two,” Athos pitched in. “In this matter, it is merely our misfortune that the two happened to coincide.”

 

 

Aramis gave an experimental tug to the restraints holding his arms spread above his head, finding little give on either of the lengths of cloth tied around his wrists. The knots were sturdy and the cloth was perhaps a bit too constrictive to be comfortable, but he was not complaining.

Yet.

For the time being, there was a beautiful woman sitting on top of his stomach, her naked legs brushing against his sides, the tantalizing heat of her womanhood just inches from his skin.

It made it very hard for him to remember that he was there on duty rather than pleasure.

She leaned forward to plant a kiss on his chest, a predatory look in her eyes. “I could do anything I wished, right this moment,” she whispered against his chest hair, sending a shiver down his spine and straight into his groin. “All sorts of nasty things,” she added, biting into his exposed nipple. “And there would be nothing you could do to stop me.”

Aramis closed his eyes and gasped, his hands and mouth eager to return the favor. He leaned forward, hoping to capture the woman's mouth but the bindings cut his offensive short, leaving him breathing hard and inches away from her tantalizing lips.

 

 

 

“Behave,” she admonished gently, wiggling down his body and trapping his restless legs. “You wouldn't want...” she purred, hooking two fingers in the rim of his small clothes, “...to anger...” she continued, pulling the linen down as she went, “...your captor.” She stopped just short of exposing him, planting a kiss on the bare skin of his hip, tongue flickering over the indentation where thigh met pelvis.

Aramis licked his lips, thrusting upwards regardless of his conscious will. As she moved away, the woman's face was as flushed as his entire body felt, heat enveloping and consuming them both. “You torture me, Madame,” the marksman let out, breathlessly.

With her fingers playing absently over the trail of fine hair going from his navel to his manhood, the woman looked up, meeting Aramis’ eyes. He could see the exact moment where duty defeated play, as the green orbs harden into steel and she pulled a dagger from beneath the bed.

Aramis forced a coy smile to spread across his face, even as his heart started to race. “I didn't actually mean that literally...” he whispered. “You are certainly full of surprises.”

“And word on the street is that you, Monsieur,” she offered back with a smile of her own, “... are full of gold.” She jumped from the bed and casually walked towards his belongings. “A burden I plan to relieve you of tonight.”

 

 

Veiled whispers that several members of the French aristocracy and preeminent members of commerce had been robbed of their possessions under suspicious circumstances, had eventually found their way into the King's ears. The particulars of how those robberies had actually taken place, however, had been more difficult to ascertain, as none of the victims seemed over eager to share any details other than the amounts of stolen gold.

It was only when, depleted of all patience, the King had demanded some concrete information in alternative to a long stay at the Bastille, that one of the victims —a member of his court— had offered some answers.

The thief was a woman. A beautiful woman.

And the means by which she had been able to get her victims alone and rob them of all possessions on their persons were, at the very least, too scandalous to be uttered in a public... or in front of their wives.

In private, however, most of the sordid details had been exposed. Of the devilry she used to lure them away from the security of their escorts with promises of forbidden delights, and most importantly, of how she left them tied and helpless to a bed as she made her escape with their money. Of what happened in between, none of the men had divulged any details, although whether it was in shame over what had happened –or rather what had failed to happen– remained unclear.

The robberies were never carried out using the same house, and never in the same town. Even the victim's description of the thief changed ever so slightly from crime to crime; sometimes she had hair as sweet as strawberries, others it was black as a raven, but the two things that remained consistent were her beauty and the green of her eyes.

With no real grasp of where to find such a slippery criminal, and with the King staring down on Treville to solve the matter with all haste, it became painfully obvious that the only way to catch such a picky mouse was to lay out a trap with the perfect cheese.

And in the matter of beautiful women, at the Musketeers' garrison, when one said cheese, what they really meant to say was Aramis.

Once all the jesting and snickering had quieted down some, it was just a matter of fitting him with some fine clothes, filling his pockets with enough coins to cause an impression and sending him off in a carriage that His Majesty had, ever so gracefully, allowed them to borrow in the hope of speeding things up.

 

 

“You never did tell me your name.” Aramis grinned. It was weak but it was the only thing he could think of to distract her from her search of his belongings. She would find no gold. No riches. Nothing that supported his earlier claim that he was a wealthy Baron from the provinces, passing through. But it was the best he could come up with at the moment.

Ignoring his question, she stiffened where she knelt on the floor, holding the satin decorated doublet that he had borrowed at the palace, her dagger poised on the floorboards. Her face froze in a moment of understanding and anger as her rummaging had her coming up with both hands empty.

“If I am left to surmise,” Aramis tried his best to ignore the growing danger, his eyes searching the room for a way to free himself. “I would say it’s something melodious, like Geneviève or Jeannette…?”

From her crouched position, she glanced at him, reclaiming the dagger before rising to her feet. The angered expression had been carefully stored away, replaced by a coy grin that didn’t quite promise a continuation of their earlier activities, at least not on the same level of pleasantness.

Now it had an air of predatory grace about it, the knife flipping with practiced ease in one hand as she climbed onto the mattress and knelt on the bed, hovering above her prey. The blade flipped back, held loosely between thumb and forefinger, dancing lightly over Aramis' chest.

“And what would you give me in return for my name?” She dragged the tip lightly up, trailing it through the dip at the base of his neck, then further until it rested against his Adam's apple. “A name for a name perhaps, yes?”

_Ah, now she’s suspicious._

Aramis swallowed, the tip of the dagger bobbing against his flesh. “I believe I already gave you one,” he squeaked rather theatrically. After all, there was no point in abandoning so soon the lovely character – loosely based on a number of noblemen he had the displeasure of meeting through his years of service- he had conjured up to play this little charade. At least not yet. The knots were a bit too tight and stubbornly refusing to obey his efforts to come free.

“You do not look like a Baron d'Perpignan,” she pointed out “Too skinny, you are.” The tip of her dagger gave solid argument to her disbelief. “And your pockets, Monsieur, are empty. So, either give me a proper name or the location of your wealth.”

Aramis twisted his nose, looking for all appearances as if he was truly pondering on the matter. “Not a prudent move, since the information puts me at a bit of a disadvantage with regard to my reputation, especially if you were to leave here… unsatisfied,” he offered with a wiggle of his brows.

There was a smile on the woman's lips, struggling to be set free. “You mean to tell me,” she continued, her eyes moving over his body like a physical thing. “You have a reputation that has nothing to do with the size of your wallet?” Heat and mischief filled her eyes and she trailed the dagger's tip down his chest, along the center of his belly, stopping only when she reached the bulge of his braies, where she drew lazy circles over the cloth with the point of her blade. “My, my, judging by the size of things, can’t imagine I would be dissatisfied at all.”

Aramis hissed and closed his eyes, his mind suddenly blanking on what he was supposed to be doing and focusing on what he wished to be doing. “Then why don’t you put down that pointy thing and let me show you what lies beneath?”

“I could do that,” she slipped the point of the dagger beneath one of the laces that kept his small clothes secured and tugged, the edge of the blade straining against the string, “...or I could cut my losses and just go.”

It was a combination of worn thread and an extremely sharp dagger as the first strand gave way far too easily. She dragged the blade down to the next section and paused, biting one corner of her lip as she eyed him, pondering. The impression of a famished wolf about to devour a poor, helpless sheep flashed through Aramis’ mind.

Unlike the sheep, however, the idea was not entirely unwelcome to him. Being devoured, under certain circumstances, was not without its perks.

As the knife slipped out from the next section, she shook her head, as if remembering herself.

Aramis could not help but sag in disappointment. Definitely a professional.

The thief trailed her gaze slowly up his body, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “You are so very tempting…” she flung one leg over his hips until she was straddling him, the heat of her center pressing against the bulge of his decidedly interested manhood, pushing at the remnants of the ties she’d left. “But I do have a rule,” she ground her hips down once to show him what he’d be missing and he groaned in mourning of its loss as she lifted up. “No mixing business with pleasure.”

Aramis swallowed. “Pleasure?” He tilted his hips up, eager for more of that delicious friction. “Seems more like torment at this point, my dear.”

She pressed back down for another feel and sighed, her head dropping back. “Call me Geneviève.”

Aramis groaned but he stared at her from half closed eyes, noting the exquisite line of her throat. “Really…? That’s... _that's_ your real name?”

“No,” she smiled, wiggling against him, a long groan of her own filling the room as she brought her head up to gaze heatedly at him. “But it’s prettier than my actual name. And just as long as I have to call you _Baron d'Perpignan_...” she added with a wink.

Aramis was almost lost in the feeling of her warm weight, wriggling above him, when not-Genevieve lifted her right knee off the bed to leave.

It placed her body off-balance for only a second, but a second was all Aramis needed. Seeing his chance, he swung his right leg up and shoved his knee hard into her back, causing her to fall forward with an undignified umph. She landing with her chest pressed against his and her dagger in his hand.

They lay there together, panting, noses nearly touching, the swell of her breasts pressed to his ribs, their curves enticing even if he could not see them. This close, her breath smelled of sweet wine and warmed spice and if he dared to lift his head from where he’d pressed back to keep from colliding with her forehead, he could so easily lift up and taste, see if he was right.

Something in her clear green eyes told him that her mind was wandering much the same path. So he dared to find out.

There was no uttered squeak of surprise when their lips collided. In fact, as he pulled back to get a sense of her willingness to proceed, she leaned forward, chasing his mouth with hers, capturing him in a searing kiss.

 _God_ , he could write poetry about those lips! They were soft, pliant and full as they pressed to his. Her body shifted forward, eager to get closer, desperate for friction and it was the most maddening thing to be trapped there with nothing more than his duty keeping him pinned.

That and the one remaining binding that held his left hand to the bedpost; he had long since worked the dagger from her slack hand and cut at the rope securing the other. Not-Geneviève either hadn’t noticed or simply did not care as she pressed in to deepen the kiss.

It was bliss.

Her tongue invaded his mouth, exploring, a small growl rising up from her throat, distracting him so utterly that he nearly forgot that his other hand was still secured. In his defense, the things her hands were doing to his chest, his belly, the fabric of his small clothes... made it so very hard to think straight and remember he had a job to accomplish. As the last twine that held his other hand in check came loose, Aramis gave a sigh of contentment.

He was free.

Wrapping his arms about her, the marksman flipped them over until she lay beneath him. The woman never flinched, seemingly unsurprised with his sudden freedom of movement. Staring breathlessly up at him, she grinned as she reached up and hooked a hand around his neck, her grip quite strong for a woman.

“I believe you said something about having strict rules about these matters? Business...” Aramis breathed into her mouth, chasing his words with a tender bite on her lower lip. “And pleasure…”

“Rules,” she panted, “actually, never was all that good with rules.” She hauled him down. “Always better at breaking them rather than following them...”

It was Aramis who squeaked in surprise as their mouths collided in a passionate, desperate kiss.

Not-Geneviève’s hands roamed slowly and possessively over his body, trailing along his ribcage, rubbing his back, leaving him dizzy with lust behind his closed eyes. Aramis felt a kind of desperation of his own that had little to do with desire –which was becoming quite a nuisance- and more to do with his continuous decline of control over his own body.

He could not trust that this whole passionate affair was not a part of her plan, and even if it wasn’t, it could not —should not— be part of his. Theirs. His brothers.

All thought screeched to a halt when her hands wove their way down to cup his ass, one hand grasping at each cheek before giving gave him a tantalizing squeeze. It was all he could do to not become undone there and then.

Lost in the maddening sensation, Aramis didn’t realize she’d bent one knee, pressed the flat of one foot to the top of the bed, and heaved. Behind closed lids, the world tilted, his lust drunken mind too far gone to do more than ride the sensation of being tossed over, his soldier's instincts shouting at him to tread carefully as he opened his eyes to find he’d been flipped on his back — again— and she was above him. Again.

He blinked up at her and she grinned down. “I think we’ve waited long enough.” Not-Geneviève kissed him quickly, pulling back enough to breath against his mouth.

Mouthing his neck, she planting small kisses up the side, trailing along the flesh with her tongue until she pulled his hair aside and began devouring his ear. “Why the rush?” His eyes rolled back in his head. Good Lord, that felt good…

Her hands, trapped beneath him, continued to knead his backside. “Rush,” she murmured as her tongue traced the shell of his ear. “On the contrary... If I cannot rob you, I will drain you dry.” She gave him a quick kiss then went in for more but Aramis pressed his head back into the pillow to allow enough room to see her fully.

“We aren’t talking about blood are we?”

Not-Geneviève chuckled. “And if we were?” She set her lips upon his for a dirty, open mouth kiss before pulling back and nuzzling her nose along his jawline, occasionally nipping at his skin. “Would that be so nefarious? I mean,” she leaned to the right in order to run one hand down his side, “when I held that dagger over you a moment ago, I could have cut you open easily, but instead of fear... you were aroused.”

The thief snaked a hand down and cupped him through his braise and Aramis felt his eyes cross behind his closed lids, head empty of all thoughts. He pressed his head deeper into the pillow and gasped, fists curling against the bed covers in a desperate attempt not to take possession of what she was offering.

He had to get things under control and fast. Their current position gave all control to her and she wielded it like a master; he felt swept along and he could not allow that.

Drawing on the last bit of self-control he possessed, he quickly tightened his arms around her, trapping her elbows between them, her body locked in his hold, her chest flush to his as he heaved. Once more he had her beneath him and grinned down at her, noting the momentary snap of fire in her eyes.

“Oh, make no mistake, I do like a bit of peril with my pleasure,” Aramis cooed triumphantly, “but I also like to be the one in charge.” The words sounded forced even to his own ears, but given that he was there to bring her to justice and not to win her heart, she had no need to know about his usual generosity between the sheets.

If she looked at him with hatred instead of lust, then perhaps he could find the strength to push away and end their charade once and for all. Instead, her pupils were blown with desire in response and Aramis couldn’t help but groan. They were doomed by their own deepest passions.

Instead of slipping away, Aramis dropped his head and licked along her skin, outlining the curve of her neck, before moving down to kiss at the curve of each breast. His hands come up to cup her breasts above her bodice, listening as she gasped when his thumbs moved in determined circles over the tips, each bud hardening beneath his ministrations.

Aramis groaned as Not-Geneviève thrashed beneath him, her body pressing against his in all the right places, stroking his own raging desire nearly to its breaking point. Glancing back at the door, brow furrowed in a sort of drunken concern, Aramis distantly wondered where the others might be, if they had found his trail at all. He’d no idea how much longer he could hold out or if he cared to even try any longer. It’s not like she wasn’t willing, after all.

It wasn't really necessary for three Musketeers and one Gascon to capture one single thief, slippery as she might be...

Her hips rolled off the bed, seeking him desperately, thrusting against him in a way that made him gasp once for the delicious feeling it brought down in his lower belly and a second time as he found himself spinning through the air once more, landing with his back pressed into the mattress.

Not-Geneviève landed on his chest with a quiet ‘umph’ and a wild, satisfied look upon her heated face.

Aramis blinked up at her in momentary confusion, but she was already sitting upright, reaching behind her until he felt her fingers busily pulling at the ties of his braise. “I think not.” There was an evil gleam in her eye as he felt his small clothes part and her hand wiggle beneath the fabric. “I prefer to ride my stallion.”

The thief's hand found flesh and Aramis’ eyes widened comically as he bucked his hips in response. He was quick this time and caught her in his arms as she fell forward and spun them once more, his body pressing her into the mattress.

The marksman thanked God silently for the sturdy bed frame and dove back in for another kiss only this time she met him halfway and their teeth collided. He tasted blood mixed with the heat and could not help but moan into the pain and delirium of her passion.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he hoped that the street cats had reached his trail of breadcrumbs before the others did.

 

 

“What's that white thing on the ground?” Porthos asked, closing in even as he spoke. In the dim light of the few street lamps and the fewer fires, he had no choice but to pick it up and bring it closer to the light to see.

“Is that...” d'Artagnan, inspecting the piece of crust with the same intensity one might offer to an intrinsic painting. “Bread?”

They had been wondering around aimlessly for the past half an hour, searching the streets around the old washery. However, unfamiliar with the town and with no one around to point them in the right direction -asking if anyone had seen a man and a woman wrapped around each other in the dead of the night had been about as productive as asking what shape the moon was; each had an answer and none was what they sought- there was little chance of them stumbling across the right direction.

Despair was nigh, as it became more and more obvious that they would never be able to find where Aramis had gone before the end of the night. He would have no choice but to handle the thief -and any accomplices that she might have- on his own.

Until Porthos spotted the piece of bread.

“You don't suppose...?” Athos voiced, trading a peculiar look with the tall Musketeer.

“Found another!” d'Artagnan called out, from a few feet away.

Porthos chuckled, joining their youngest, Athos trailing at his back. “That bastard left us breadcrumbs for a trail,” he whispered, disbelief in every word. “An actual, sodding, _breadcrumb_ trail...”

But that was as far as their victory lasted. The bread trail ended at the turn of a street, rather than a doorstep. Apparently, the distance had been greater than the piece of bread Aramis had carried on him.

“Now what?” Porthos asked, looking up at the sky. The position of the moon signified it had been nearly one hour since they'd lost him. Anything could have happened by now, his treacherous mind rushed to add.

“There's at least ten houses on each side of this street,” d'Artagnan pointed out, running a hand through his hair. “We can't possibly search them all.”

Athos smiled, walking purposefully towards the third house on the right side. “Or we could start with this one,” he announced. Seeing the confused looks on both Porthos' and the Gascon's face, he grabbed the item that had called his attention. Aramis' hat. “Better than bread.”

The plaque outside announced it as the house of Monsieur Toulouse, trader of spices and other Oriental curiosities. The owner of the house was either away or dead, for the place looked empty, none of the windows showing signs of a fire burning inside or even a lit candle.

“Tread carefully,” Athos warned needlessly, his hand poised on the handle of the front door. It was open.

Inside, the place was darker than the street and they took a moment to adjust to the deep gloom. It was then that they heard the loud thud coming from upstairs and decided to cast all care to the wind.

 

 

Somehow, they had both ended up on the floor, the bed sheets tangled around them like webbing round a spider's prey.

“Guess that solves the dominance issue,” Aramis whispered, his voice breathless, sweat pooling at the hollow of his neck.

His elbow and tailbone hurt from when they had struck the floor, Not-Geneviève having managed to land on top of him rather than on the hard and unforgiving boards, but he had no desire to move just yet.

The thief, as well, seemed comfortable enough where she lay, snuggling against his chest, her body pliable and relax in a manner that only certain types of intimacy could achieve.

He require but a minute. One minute, and Aramis would rise to his feet, grab some rope and take custody of his prisoner.

Maybe two min—

The door swung open ferociously, sending the both of them scrambling for the nearest weapon.

“Aramis! Are you alri—” the rest of the words died, trapped inside the Gascon's throat, as he stepped inside the room and caught a glimpse of the tableau on the floor. “A...are you... naked?” His voice rose as fast as the redness on his cheeks. “Oh, God!” he blew out, not waiting for an answer before turning on his heels and rushing out of the room.

“What are ya—” Porthos' voice boomed from the door, his gaze flickering from the retreating figure to the couple by the bed. “Ah!” he let out, averting his eyes like the gentleman that he was. “Well... we'll... you know,” he stammered, clearing his throat. “Be outside... in case you need... any… thing,” he finished hastily, closing the door behind him.

Aramis didn't catch a glimpse of Athos, but there was no need for that, for his 'HE DID WHAT?!” came across loud and clear through the thin walls.

“Friends of yours... _Aramis_?” the woman purred, lifting her head just enough to lean her chin on his chest.

The marksman nearly winced at her tone. It was a combination of condescension and sarcasm that made the hair at the back of his neck stand to attention. "Friends?" Aramis attempted to counter. "More like acquaintances, really."

And just like that, the spell was broken.

The thief darted away from Aramis, twirling on the floor and landing a kick to his face.

Aramis' head snapped back and his eyes teared up as his nose flared in pain. But, being the soldier he was, he never lost sight of his target. His hand flew out, blindly reaching and grasping her ankle before she could escape, pulling her back to his side.

She let out a surprised yelp, sinking back to the floor in frustration. “You’re not a wealthy Baron, are you?” the thief asked, her voice muffled by the wild hair surrounding her face.

As Aramis moved around, straddling her legs to keep them still, he smiled down at her. Even moving his cheeks was making his nose ache. “Why... whatever gave you such an idea?”

“Mostly the fact that you can take a hit like a soldier,” she said, sounding vaguely impressed. “And the two Musketeers that just burst through that door, calling you by name, helped a little,” she confessed. Her eyes lit up in realization, looking between him and the door. “All of this... were you lot after poor ol' me?”

“You could have flattered your way into freedom by saying that I am simply too dashing to be a member of the nobility,” Aramis muttered, his eyes searching the floor for something he could use to bind her hands. “But, alas, this does seem like the end of your villainous ways.”

Not-Geneviève fluttered her eyelids rather theatrically at him, her lips forming a perfect pout. “Ah... but that was precisely what I meant to say...”

Aramis' brow raised comically, a show of how little he appreciated her acting skills. “Well done,” he uttered, finally spotting a piece of cloth dangling from the headboard, his mind already at work on how he was getting them from the floor to over there in his rather vulnerable lack of attire. “You can consider yourself under arrest in the name of His—”

Suddenly the sheets were moving and the world was turning sideways, a shift that ended with Aramis banging the back of his head against the hard floor as he landed. Blinking dark spots away from his vision, the Musketeer decided that it was best to simply close them altogether, as the cold kiss of a blade pressed beneath his chin. “Ah…” Aramis swallowed carefully. “So that’s where that knife went to…”

 

 

“I can't believe I was actually worried for him,” d'Artagnan voiced, walking away from the door, rubbing at his eyes. He looked like a man who wanted to reach inside his brain and rub those last images away. “I thought him to be a good soldier -an exemplary Musketeer-”

“He is,” Porthos swiftly set the lad straight, puffing out his chest like a proud father. “One of the best.”

D'Artagnan paused in his pacing, staring openly at the tall man. “He's _in a bed_ with the thief we were meant to catch!” he pointed out, rather needlessly, as all of them knew what lay behind those closed doors. “Naked!”

“So is she,” Porthos' pointed out, smirking as muffled sound of flesh hitting flesh came from inside the room. “And she ain't going anywhere but the Chatelêt after this.”

“So, we're meant to stand guard here, while he...” d’Artagnan paused as a distinctively female yelp came from inside. “... _arrests_ her?” he asked, cheeks flaming at the innuendo as he turned his attention on their leader instead of an all-too-amused Porthos. “Athos?”

The older man was leaning against the stairs' balustrade, staring at the wall like it was made of glass and he could follow every movement on the other side. From inside the room, they could all hear more thumps and Aramis' deep grunt at one point. “We all have our weaknesses and vices,” he declared, pulling a silvery flask from his pocket and taking a sip, as if to prove his point.

Porthos smiled approvingly, before reaching out for Athos' flask, taking a sip of his own. “Remember that time we were sent to arrest the Duke de Nice?” he asked, his mouth twisting into a smirk. “Oi! How long was he there for... four hours? Five?”

“Too long,” Athos recalled. “Long enough for me to fetch reinforcements.”

“With the _Duke_?” D'Artagnan asked wide-eyed, not sure they were being completely serious. “Surely he...”

“With the Duchess,” Porthos clarified, showing a toothy grin. “Though the Duke seemed curious enough to—”

“Try now,” Athos cut in, pulling away from the stairs. Meeting the confused look of the other two, he pointed to the door. “They've gone quiet... try now.”

D'Artagnan looked askance at Athos. “Think it’s safe?”

Porthos didn't hesitated, knocking once on the door. “Aramis? You decent?” he asked, mouth close enough to kiss the wood. “Conscious...?”

There was a pause. Each of them shared a glance before Athos shrugged, inclining his head toward Porthos. The larger man reached for the knob—

The door was suddenly flung open with a gust of unsettled air. Porthos stumbled forward into the room a half-step and just managed to avoid crashing to the floor. As the dust settled, Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan reared back and stared.

Aramis stood stiffly before them, knees locked, one hand on the knob, the other clenching the jamb with a white knuckled grip, breathless and flushed. The borrowed silk shirt was badly wrinkled and hung untucked from his barely attached breeches and the brocade doublet—also borrowed—was unbuttoned and completely wrong side out and the fancy weapons belt was slung over one shoulder.  There was trail of blood running down from Aramis' temple and his bottom lip was split.

They each took a step back and look him over curiously as he limped out into the hall.

“No,” he growled, limping a step forward to stand before them. “I’m not decent, but as you can see, I am... mostly conscious.” He looked to have more to say on the matter, but spying the flask in Athos’ hand, moved there instead, wiggling his fingers in the direction of the coveted drink.

The swordsman wisely did not object when Aramis lashed out, snagging the container from his fingers. Giving it a quick test shake to judge its contents, he drained it dry before handing it back to its rightful owner.

“Gentleman,” the marksman announced solemnly, blinking slowly as if one long sip had been enough to render him drunk. “She’s all yours.”

The rest of them peered at the door and stared inside. Their thief lay on the bed, her hands tied to the headboard and with a blanket pulled up over to cover her body, most probably for modesty’s sake.

Porthos stepped back, nodding approvingly until he got a good look at his friend. “You’re bleedin’” he stated, pointing one finger at Aramis' arm.

Aramis looked from Porthos' face to his own arm, both eyebrows rising in surprise. He smirked sluggishly, looking back up at his friends. His gaze was far from warm, cordial or friendly. “Thank you for noticing...something, at last.”

Porthos jerked back in confusion. He glanced at Athos for answers but the swordsman could only shrug.

They stared at his back as Aramis limped his ways towards the stairs, his steps crooked and somewhat unsteady. He turned at the steps and stopped, swaying a moment before grabbing the ancient newel on the top post and holding on for dear life. The thing wobbled in his hand before settling enough to take his weight. One foot extended, he winced as he made the first step.

“Well— what are we supposed to do with her?” d’Artagnan called after him, his voice wobbling thin at the end. The thief was probably naked underneath that blanket and someone would have to help her get dressed.

Aramis halted after the first few steps and leaned one shoulder against the wall, as if to rest, clutching at his belt, in deep concentration.

“Tread carefully. She bites,” he managed another stiff legged step, stumbling some but managing to right himself from going down on his ass. “And has quite the powerful kick,” he warned, rubbing his thigh absently.

Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan exchanged a look, unsure if the marksman was being serious or mocking them. Going by the state of his… everything, there's wasn't much hope for jesting.

“And where are you going?”

“My part is done,” he called from the bottom of the stairs. “I'm going to get drunk. Blindingly, blissfully, brilliantly… drunk.”


	4. For Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the Musketeers knew well the difficulty and terror associated with captivity, and had spent more than their fair share of time in all sorts of restraints and ties, none of those moments compared to the tangled web and bindings of family. Aramis is forcibly reminded of very old wounds upon receipt of a letter from his sister…

****

Serge’s food was hardly fit to serve at the palace but to four hungry and tired Musketeers, it was a gourmet meal fit for nobility. They'd just returned from a long mission that had kept them away from Paris for over a week, so as they took a seat at the table, the unidentified hot glob of cooked meat that graced their plates was nothing short of heavenly nectar.

“I believe I'll sleep for a month after this,” Porthos informed them in between large bites of fresh- baked bread. “In a proper bed!”

Aramis smiled, carefully sipping the sweetened, warm wine in his cup. “I’ve heard of wild beasts that do the same in the winter months,” he pointed out, wiggling his eyebrows. “Big and hairy, same as you.” 

D’Artagnan’s food flew out of his mouth at the marksman’s comment. The image of a bear-sized Porthos, hibernating in his quarters, was far too amusing to stop himself from laughing heartily and spraying bits of half-chewed carrots over everyone. 

Athos, quietly smiling at his friends’ banter, barely blinked as a piece of cheese flew by his head, inches from his nose, as Porthos retaliated against Aramis’ quips with food. The younger man, for his part, merely scooped up the projectile from where it fell and popped it into his mouth with an air of triumph. 

“ _Monsieur_ d’ Herblay?” 

The name drifted from the front gates, attracting Aramis’ attention. He looked up, watching as one of the guards on duty stood talking to a young man. “I don’t know anyone here that goes by that name,” he went on, scratching at his beard. “You sure you've got the right place?” 

The marksman exchanged a grim look with Porthos, before silently rising from their table and walking to the gate. For anyone who knew Aramis, it was easy to see that his movements were heavy and sluggish, lacking their usual grace. And Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan knew him all-too-well. 

“Does Aramis know this d'Herblay person?” d’Artagnan inquired, always eager for any additional information he could find about his new friends. 

Porthos and Athos, their attention focused on the events taking place a few feet away, did not answer. 

They could not hear the exchange between Aramis and the young boy, for the conversation was kept to soft tones, but they could all see the roll of parchment that the new arrival gave the marksman. More importantly, they could see the way color suddenly drained from their friend's face as he unrolled it and started to read. 

Porthos was on his feet in seconds, closely followed by Athos and d’Artagnan. 

“Oi! What’s the meaning of this?” the tall Musketeer barked as he strode towards the gates, determined to punish the person responsible for destroying his friend’s good spirits. 

The poor man who had delivered the message looked up in fright, recoiling at the odd chance that his life would end there and then. 

“Peace, my friend,” Aramis whispered. His voice, while steady, lacked strength, the words sounding like stolen breath from his chest. “A letter, nothing more,” he explained, re-rolling the parchment before anyone could glimpse it. “Nothing of importance,” he added with a forced smile, handing a coin to the young man. 

The messenger looked at it, embarrassed. He cleared his throat, taking a strategic step away from Porthos. “She expects an answer, Monsieur,” he whispered. 

Aramis’ eyes hardened to black coal. “Tell her there is none,” he simply said, turning and walking away before anyone could stop him. 

 

 

“So, his family name is d’Herblay?” the Gascon asked, as the three of them stood idle, watching as their fourth disappeared inside the garrison’s walls. “Who do you think the message was from?” 

Athos fixed him with a look which the younger man chose to ignore. 

“He doesn’t talk much about his other family,” Porthos confessed, finally answering some of the young man’s questions. His words, however, left no doubt that the Musketeers were Aramis’ family now. “We should respect that.” 

D’Artagnan nodded, because he agreed with the sentiment in concept. However, later that night, on his way to his lodgings at the Bonacieux household, fate conspired to set his actions against his early decisions. If he had not chosen to take a different route home, d’Artagnan would never have stumbled across the place. It was not one of their usual places to share a drink. 

But here he was and there… sat Aramis. 

“Mind if I join you?” d’Artagnan approached. 

The older man gazed at him from under the brim of his hat, eyes bleary and unfocused. The empty bottle on the table in front of him was, most certainly, not his first. 

“And if I find it in myself to mind, will you turn and leave?” he asked, the words slightly slurred. 

“Of course!” d’Artagnan let out in wholehearted agreement, even as he pulled over a rickety chair and sat without waiting for invitation. “I thought the ‘drinking alone’ and brooding disposition thing was reserved for Athos,” he pointed out. 

Aramis scoffed, grabbing the bottle to try and squeeze a few more drops onto his cup. “Not alone, am I?” 

“But you _are_ in a brooding disposition,” d’Artagnan pressed.

 The marksman gave up on the bottle, looking around for someone to get him another. “No, you are mistaken,” Aramis threw out. “Me? I’m celebrating!” 

While his words had an almost euphoric tone, d’Artagnan could see that the sentiment behind them was far from it. In Aramis’ eyes, he could see the same loneliness and bereavement he sometimes caught in his own reflection. “And what is the occasion?” he asked quietly. 

Aramis stopped, at a loss for words for a moment. It appeared he had been drinking to forget and the wine had done its task perfectly. “I’m celebrating…the fulfillment of a promise,” he sputtered, raising his empty glass. “To well-kept promises!” 

He lifted his arm and the sudden movement disturbed the precarious balance Aramis had been keeping on his chair, nearly plunging him to the ground. 

“I believe you have celebrated enough, my friend,” d’Artagnan said, clasping his shoulder. “Allow me to escort you home.” 

Aramis chuckled as d’Artagnan levered him to his feet, leaning against the young man and draping a clumsy arm across his shoulders. “…home…yes, let us...go there.” 

The young man paused, looking down at the mop of dark curls, the only thing he could see of his friend's bent head. The way Aramis had said ‘home’ had sounded so sorrowful, like an ethereal place he could never reach but in dreams. 

The marksman's rooms at the garrison, unlike the other senior officers’, were on the ground floor, past the stables. D'Artagnan had been there often enough to guide his friend's stumbling steps in the dark and lead him to his bed. 

Aramis was snoring even before his body hit the soft surface. 

Pausing for a moment, d’Artagnan wondered if he should seek out the others and tell them what had passed, or simply leave the man to his drunken slumbers. He decided to take his leave when his eyes landed upon a familiar parchment, discarded carelessly on the table. 

D'Artagnan bit his lower lip, looking around in search of judging eyes, but they were alone. He knew he should not invade Aramis' privacy in such a gross manner, but concern for his friend's well-being bade him to break this particular boundary. What if the letter contained some kind of threat that the marksman had been unwilling to share? 

With a silent apology to his senseless companion, d'Artagnan reached for the rolled parchment. 

 

 

D'Artagnan dropped the parchment on the table as if the paper had scorched his fingers like fire. 

Suddenly, he was no longer at the Musketeers' garrison, listening to his Aramis’ gentle snoring. He was cold and wet, crying in the heavy rain, holding the body of his dead father, shot by bandits. 

D'Artagnan shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, a fruitless action, as the cold he felt had nothing to do with the temperature surrounding him. 

Aramis' father was dead and the older Musketeer seemed determined to ignore the fact, like the loss of a father had little more significance than a horse throwing a shoe. 

It was a strategy that was not unfamiliar to him. D'Artagnan had buried his grief for his father for as long as he could, plunging all of his thoughts and feelings into finding the one truly responsible for taking his life, and avenging Alexander's memory. 

It had been for naught, for grief was like the sun rising on the horizon; it could not be stopped. 

And the Gascon was going to make sure that Aramis did not hide from his. 

 

 

The sun felt unusually strong and cruelly vicious in its brightness as Aramis emerged from his room. The previous day had left a noxious aftertaste in his mouth, or perhaps that was just the remnant of all the wine of dubious quality that he had consumed. 

His father was dead. 

The news should have brought nothing but relief, the man's poor opinion of his son having died with him. 

Instead, reading those words had felt like being kicked by a horse, dead-center in the chest, hard enough to rip his heart from between his ribs. 

His father was dead. 

Aramis felt robbed. Robbed of the chance to battle his father's negative views of the world, robbed of the chance of proving him wrong, robbed of the chance to tell him that his anger had withered away years ago... robbed of his father. 

And that only served to anger him further. He should not be mourning so, not for a man who had turned his back on his son the moment he announced that he wished to follow his own path and not join the church. 

A cup filled his field of vision, making the marksman recoil so as not to spill its contents. 

“Drink,” Athos dryly offered. “You look to be in dire need of it.” 

Aramis sniffed at the dark liquid, finding a pleasant mix of herbs and watered wine. “Thank you,” he rasped, taking a sip. “We've got our orders?” 

With his eyes half-closed to stop the sun from stabbing into them, Aramis felt his way around the bench as he sat gingerly on the wood surface. It took him a moment to realize that no one answered his question. Blearily, he opened his eyes to gaze around the table. Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan were all staring back, each exhibiting an expression that ranged from compassion to sympathy. 

They knew. 

“Remind me to teach you how to respect another man's privacy,” he informed d'Artagnan with a heated look before surrendering to his head’s desperate attempts to fall off his shoulders. He crossed his arms on the table and rested his aching skull against them. “I have no wish to speak of the matter,” he said firmly, his voice muffled by the curtain of hair that had fallen over his face. 

“I did it out of concern,” the Gascon defended himself, his voice laced with that same sentiment. “You cannot simply ignore the fact that your father is dea—” 

Aramis raised his head, the gesture so sudden and violent that the glass in front of him toppled sideways. “Have I ever told where I got this?” he asked acidly, pointing at the scar on his forehead. 

D'Artagnan blinked, at a loss over the sudden change in topic. Finding out the adventures and courageous tales behind each of the Inseparables' scars had become sort of an evening event, the Gascon eager to learn about their pasts, and the more seasoned soldiers taking advantage of those tales to teach him not to make the same mistakes they had. The scar on Aramis' forehead had never been the subject of one of those tales. 

“No...” he replied, not sure what Aramis was trying to accomplish. 

“I left home very young, barely seventeen,” the marksman started, his gaze trapped by a piece of bread on the table. “Too young to have a craft of my own, yet too old to begin an apprenticeship with any sort of master...so I took to soldiering. I liked soldiering,” he added with a smile, fondly remembering the first time he had held a musket in his hands. “I was good at it,” he confessed shyly, not bothering with false modesty. “Treville asked me to join the Musketeers before the garrison's walls were barely finished...got my commission that very same winter.” 

Aramis paused, his eyes clouding with some dark memory. His left hand reached for his paldron, fingers caressing the engraving. “The first day I strapped this to my shoulder, I returned home, to show my father what I had accomplished for myself,” he went on. “I was so proud of belonging to the King's Musketeers that it never occurred to me that he might feel differently.” 

From the deep frowns both Porthos and Athos had etched on their faces, it was obvious that they could see very clearly where Aramis' story was heading. D'Artagnan, from the pallor that had taken over his skin, seemed all too eager to not hear the ending of this particular tale. 

“He called me a _mercenaire_ , a murderer for money, said my soul was forever lost and there was nothing he or God could do for me,” Aramis went on, despite their grim countenances, his voice emotionless, like he was telling someone else's story. “I was too stunned by his reaction to retreat fast enough...he grabbed the first thing within reach and threw it at my face.” 

D’Artagnan gasped. For someone who had always been loved by his father and had never once seen an act of villainy mar Alexander's honor, to hear of such actions was troublesome. 

Aramis chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that seemed to tear his throat apart. “I was lucky he only had a candlestick at hand and not his sword,” he added, fingering the scar absently. “Or instead of a dashing scar, I would be minus an eye.” 

“Aramis, I—” d'Artagnan started, his eyes conspicuously wet, his mouth opening even if no words were coming out. “I understand th—” 

“No,” Aramis cut him short, rising from the table. “You do not...you cannot.” 

Porthos and Athos exchange a worried look between them. “Aramis, the pup meant well,” the tall Musketeer defended. “Do you know how much I would've given for the chance to have some bad memories of my father?” Porthos let out. It was no secret to any of them that his mother had been abandoned, alone in the world, left to fend for herself and her unborn child. He knew nothing of the man who had sired him, other than the fact that he was probably light-skinned, and of even that he could not be sure. “Don't throw away yer chance, Aramis, even if you go there for nothing more than t' spit on his grave.” 

“My father,” Athos said, his eyes hard as steel. “He was not a kind man, to either his family or those he saw as beneath him,” he went on, repulsion lacing every word. “He was all that I saw as wrong with the aristocracy and he made sure that I learned every one of his misconceptions and foul ideas until I could recite by heart the reasons why we were better than the man grooming our horses.” 

The former Comte shuddered, as if the ice-cold fingers of distant memory had grabbed him by the throat and refused to let go. “The day he died was the first time I lost myself at the bottom of a bottle,” he added with a sad smile. “I told myself I was celebrating,” he finished, unknowingly echoing Aramis' words of just a few hours before. 

The marksman looked at his friends, still seated at the table, all waiting for him to do the right thing. 

“He was still your father,” d'Artagnan said, not making an effort to hide the tears pooling in his eyes, making them wonder exactly whose father he was thinking about. “Have you not a single good memory of him?” 

Aramis paused in the middle of the yard, breathing hard. 

He wanted to open his mouth and tell d'Artagnan that he was wrong, that all he had gotten from the man who called himself his father had been contempt and hatred. But he could not. 

He had learned how to read and write seated in his father's lap, the smell of his pipe and beard oil forever interlaced with his letters and numbers. 

In the late afternoons, after he was done with his chores, Aramis remembered running down the stairs of their home and peering from the door as his father worked the still, the smell of honey and fruit hanging heavily in the air. 

The house always smelled of honey.

He remembered when he had fallen from his father's horse, trying to mount a steed that was simply too big for his short legs. His father had carried him to the house, Aramis' broken arm cradled between them, saying not a word to chastise him for his own foolishness. 

The marksman let his chin fall to his chest, knowing that d'Artagnan, for all of his pig-headiness and poking, was right.

“Good,” Porthos said, rubbing his hands as he got up and came over. “We leave at dawn then!” 

Aramis looked up in surprise, barely keeping his balance as the large man wrapped his arm around his shoulders. “We?” 

“I shall inform the Captain,” Athos announced, already on his way up the stairs. 

“You will?” Aramis replied, wondering exactly when he had lost control over his own life and his friends had taken over. 

“No, he won't,” Treville's voice said from above. His grip around the balcony rail had nothing casual about it, his knuckles white from tension. It was safe to assume that he had listened to their entire conversation. “You have my permission to leave, alone....” 

Aramis nodded, slowly. Although his friends’ presence had been imposed and no one had actually bothered to ask him if he desired company on such a journey, the truth was it was not a voyage he wished to make on his own. The comforting presence of the others would have been preferred, but the Captain was right, there was no justification for all four of them to leave the garrison just for one funeral. 

“Captain, if I ma--” Athos cut in, clearly ready to argue. 

“You _may_ let me finish,” Treville replied sternly, casting a warning look towards his second-in-command. “As I was saying, you are free to attend your father's funeral,” he went on, ignoring the disappointment of Aramis’ friends. “Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan will be escorting me on my annual review of the Musketeers stationed outside of Paris. This year, I believe I shall visit the fort at Herblay.” 

Aramis blinked, certain that he had misunderstood. “The fort, of course,” he mumbled, feeling like the entire world had turned upside down and he was the only one who hadn't been informed. 

The 'fort' in his hometown was nothing but a lonely tower amidst some old ruins that the children used for climbing, and there were certainly no Musketeers stationed there, as the village was too small and insignificant to merit such an endeavour. But if the Captain wanted to journey there and felt like he needed a full escort of Musketeers to do so, who was Aramis to protest?

 

 

It was a short journey from Paris to Herblay, the village no more than a day's ride. Still, the somberness that accompanied each hour spent on horseback made it seem much further. 

Aramis had grown more and more withdrawn the closer they got, barely speaking even when the others tried to pull him into their conversation. After a while, they had simply given up and left him to his melancholy and introspection. 

“Do you know his family?” d'Artagnan asked Porthos in a hushed tone, gazing under his unruly fringe of hair towards the marksman, riding a few paces ahead. “Other than his father and sister, that is.” 

Athos, riding behind the two, pulled his horse closer. 

“He has a sister?” Porthos replied, the surprise in his voice making it clear that the fact was news to him. “How come he never mentioned her?” 

“I fear,” Athos pitched in, eyes filled with sadness, “that there is much that our dear friend has not mentioned to us.” 

Athos was the one who everyone believed to be mysterious and with a colorful past, mainly because he avoided speaking about it like the Devil avoided the cross. Aramis was more subtle, less prone to find himself cornered by questions, but he was, nonetheless, as protective of his past as the former Comte. 

Aramis reined to a stop. “We're here,” he announced without a hint of happiness in his voice. 

Athos took stock of the place, finding the house up on the hill, surrounded by grapevines, idyllic. It was hard to associate such a beautiful and serene place with Aramis’ bad memories. 

Then again, he was certain that, for the others, his own home hadn't seemed as oppressive and glum as it had for him. It was all, truly, in the eye of the beholder. 

Athos wondered if Aramis was seeing the same scene as them. 

The marksman had dismounted, leading his horse as he walked the gravel road leading up to the three buildings sitting close together. The front of the middle structure was covered in green vines, while the one on the left was a simple wooden construction. 

In front of the main house, a large tree took center stage, its opulent branches heavy with fruit nearly obscuring the front door. 

That was the only reason why none of them saw the woman standing there until they were almost to the house. At a distance, she looked like a slightly-older version of Constance, a fact that gave all of them pause. 

“I believe you may have crossed paths with my messenger,” she said in greeting, her voice stern and composed. “The one who told me you were not coming.” 

“My mind was changed,” Aramis replied, standing in front of her, almost at attention. “Will you allow us in, Margeuax?” he asked shyly as he looked into his sister's eyes. 

The woman gave a sad chuckle, throwing her arms around the Musketeer. “Please...you've never called me Margeaux once in your whole damn life,” she chided. “This is your home, René...you do not need my permission or anyone else's to enter,” she whispered in his ear. 

Even from a distance, Athos could see the way Aramis sagged into his sister's hold, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist. “Margie...I've missed you dearly.” 

“I apologize for the intrusion, Madame,” Treville interrupted, politely taking off his hat. “But if you'd be so kind as to point us in the direction of some lodgings for me and my men...” 

“Nonsense,” she replied, patting Aramis' shoulder as she pulled back. “If you are friends of little René, you are more than welcome at d'Herblay House,” she said, her smile fading as she took notice of the number of weapons they each carried. “They are _friends_ , right?” she asked her brother. 

Porthos chuckled, mouthing _little René_ to Athos. The former Comte couldn't help but smile. Aramis was never going to live that name down, now. 

Aramis, for his part, seemed suddenly called to reality, finally realizing that he had been ignoring the others and had completely failed to introduce his sister to them. “My apologies,” he rushed to say. “Gentlemen, allow me to present my sister, Margeuax—” 

“Margie,” she quickly amended. 

“--Margie,” Aramis corrected. “Margie, these are the King's Musketeers Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan — and our Captain, Monsieur d'Treville.” 

Her eyes widened ever-so-slightly at the Captain's mention, but before she could say anything, a young boy no older than eight, dashed around the corner of the house. In pursuit were two girls of about twelve and fourteen, their long hair flying in the breeze. 

The three of them nearly collided with d'Artagnan's back, before they could control their motion and come to a jumbled stop at Aramis' feet. 

“Children!!” Margie said in exasperation, clearly embarrassed. “Must you behave like savages? We have guests!” 

The older of the girls looked up coyly, merely acting ashamed when in reality she was too curious to see who the guests were to listen to Margie's words. When her eyes locked with Aramis’, her face lit up like a brand new candle in a dark room. “Uncle René!” 

It was the only warning the marksman had before the bundle of skirts and long curls threw itself at him, arms closing around his neck and legs clamping around his waist like one of those tentacled beasts from the sea that Athos had read about. 

“Amelie?” Aramis replied tentatively, given that he had only the crown of her head to go by. “Is that you?” 

“I've missed you so much, Uncle René!” she said, finally releasing her grip and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Is your head feeling better?” she asked, small fingers tracing a pattern on the scar on his forehead. 

Aramis let her go, kissing the top of her head, before turning to the other girl. “And you must be Nadine...God, you two were nothing more than toddlers last I saw you,” he marveled, opening his arms when the young girl reached for him as well. “You’re both so tall!” 

The girls merely chuckled, refusing to let go of him. 

“I shall be taller than both of them!” the boy announced proudly, quickly forgetting the girls to poke at Porthos' sword. “That is an enormous sword! Is it for real?” 

“And who might you be?” Aramis inquired, ruffling the boy's hair. Unlike the girls' nearly-blond locks, his were closer to Margie's auburn curls. 

“René Patrice d'Herblay,” the child announced proudly, completely unaware of the reaction his declaration caused. “At your service,” he finished, performing a perfect little bow. 

Aramis removed his hand as if the touch had burned him. “After...?” 

“You and Father, of course,” Margie supplied, pulling the boy next to her, mostly to stop him from trying to get at Porthos' sword. “I learned of this little devil's arrival a few weeks after you...” She paused, looking at the men surrounding them and seemingly unsure of how to proceed. “After your altercation with Father. It was my way to bring the two of you together again.” 

“Father must have truly appreciated that,” the marksman pointed out sarcastically. 

The smirk on Margie's face was so akin to the one Aramis so often wore, that Athos felt the need to blink to tell the two apart. She might look like Constance, but her expressions were a mirror of what they were well used to seeing on their friend. 

“Who's there at the door?” a voice reached them, coming from inside the house. “Close the bloody thing before I catch my death!” 

Aramis blinked in surprise, looking beyond the door. “Is that...” he asked, his face splitting into a fond smile. “Is that _Abuelita_?” 

His sister nodded, rolling her eyes at their grandmother's manners. Speaking of which... “Oh, my manners,” Margie said, one hand flying to her forehead. “Here we are, catching up and your friends are still standing here, freezing on the lawn, instead of inside by the fire,” she pointed out, moving aside so they could enter. “Don't worry about the horses; the girls can take them to the stables. Beatrice and the boys should be there, they'll take good care of them.” 

Athos felt slightly uneasy surrendering his black stallion to such young girls, but soon it became clear that he had no reason to worry. The two girls and little René were as comfortable with the imposing steeds as any other child their age would be around small puppies. 

“Pierre, my husband -- you remember him, yes? He should be at the vineyards, but you can come inside so your friends can meet the rest of the family,” Margie beckoned, leading the five of them into a large room to the right of the main entrance. A large fireplace dominated the room, several chairs, benches and a long table settled in front of the hearth. Beyond the hearth, a second fire could be seen beneath the stove, pots and pans hanging from the walls and a few shelves with dishes and cups. 

There was nothing but bread baking in the oven, but the smell was divine. 

In the first room, there were three women sitting in a circle, all of them stitching the same quilt. Aramis' family was, it would seem, overtaken by the female kind. 

“That's our sister Eloise,” Margie pointed to youngest of the women, looking about d'Artagnan's age. “She was in pigtails when you left, no?” 

A smile spread across Aramis’ lips as he moved to embrace his young half-sister. “You're a young lady now,” he noted proudly. 

“Bonifacius!” called the oldest of the ladies, her hair tied into a long white braid that fell down the side of her neck and with skin so overwhelmed by wrinkles that it made her look like old parchment. Her words, while spoken in French, carried the heavily-accented tone of her Spanish origins. “Is that you, _mi corazón_?” 

Athos and the others looked around looking for Bonifacius, thinking that yet another member of the family had snuck up on them, but there was no one there but Margie. The tender smile and look of exasperation in her eyes made him assume that this was a recurring situation. Bonifacius, whomever he was, was simply not there. 

To their utter surprise, Aramis knelt by the old lady's side, throwing his arms around her. “ _'Lita_ , you old crone...you haven't changed a bit!” 

“Give us a kiss, _guapo_ ,” the old woman said with a smile, her lips already extending to Aramis' mouth. The marksman, obviously accustomed to the gesture, grabbed her face and turned her so he could plant a sonorous kiss on her cheek. “René!” she exclaimed, finally recognizing her grandson. 

D'Artagnan could not help his gasp of surprise, even as Porthos started laughing. 

“ _Abuelita_ 's eyes don't work all that well, haven't for a long while,” Margie explained in a low tone. “Her late husband, Bonifacius, looked a lot like René when he was a young man, so she's been confusing the two for a while.” 

“Stop trying to kiss the boy, _maman_!” the woman on her left called, her eyes never lifting from the stitch she was applying. “One of these days he's going to kiss you back and Bonifacious will climb out of his grave to put you in your place,” she added, throwing a look at her nephew. “Can't really trust someone the likes of him not to take advantage of an old lady.” 

“Aunt Selina,” Aramis greeted coldly, not bothering to leave his grandmother's side while he spoke. “I hope you're faring well,” he offered without emotion. “Your tongue, at least, remains sharp.” 

The woman, her nearly-black hair tied in a neat bundle at the top of her head, offered a smile that was closer to a sneer. Her eyes fell upon the men standing by the door, measuring and analyzing the four of them in detail. “Are those your bastard brothers or did you decide to bring your own band of miscreants to exact your revenge on this family?” 

 _This family_ , Athos noticed with a wince, not _your family_.

“Aunt Selina!” Margie gasped, caught off-guard by the acerbic comments. “Please...” 

Selina dismissed her warning, rising from her seat. She was tall, nearly Aramis' height. “That one's a bit too old to be one of hers,” she said, pointing to Treville, “but I'm sure the whore managed to convince him that one of her pups squirted from his cock as well. After all, my sister's husband couldn't have been the only fool in the whole of France.” 

“That will be quite enough,” Aramis hissed, low and dangerous. “I am here to pay my respects to the man who sired me, nothing more,” he continued, rising to his feet. “You will do well to keep your opinions to yourself and respect my friends until we depart.” 

Selina merely raised her carefully-groomed eyebrow. “I knew that as soon as Patrice died, you'd come crawling back,” she spat, turning her back and exiting with a flourish of her ballooning skirts. 

The silence that settled over those who remained was not a pleasant one, filled with resounding echoes of the malicious words. 

“Perhaps it would be better if we looked for accommodations in the vill--” Aramis offered, his anger deflating as he seemed to shrink into himself. 

“You most certainly will not!” Margie snapped, her anger flaring now that the older woman was no longer around. “Father had no choice but to put Uncle August, her low-life husband,” she added in deference to those outside the family, “in charge of the distillery only last year. They've both been absolutely impossible since Papa was killed a--” 

“Wha...?” Aramis gasped, his face losing all color. “What did you just say?” 

Her slip of the tongue and Aramis' reaction did not go unnoticed. Athos exchanged a look with their youngest, as d'Artagnan had been the only one to read the letter, outside of the marksman himself. From the surprised look on the Gascon's face, it was clear to see that this was news for all. 

Margie's hand flew to her mouth, a look of complete horror and sadness overtaking her. “Oh, God!” she whispered between her fingers. “This was not how I wanted to tell you...” 

“How did it happen?” Aramis whispered, taking the vacant place by his grandmother's side. The old woman immediately took one of his hands in hers, patting his fingers in a comforting gesture. His younger sister moved closer as well, fresh tears coming to her eyes even as she leaned her head against the marksman' shoulder. 

Trapped between two generations of d'Herblays, Aramis looked as if he had never left his father's home. 

“We can't prove a thing,” Margie said, sinking into a chair nearby. “But we believe Monsieur Gustaf, the owner of the lands surrounding ours, killed poor _Papa_ and then made it look like a riding accident.” 

“And what makes you think it was not an actual riding accident?” Athos asked. 

From the way the whole d'Herblay family stared at him, the former Comte figured he had said something completely outside the realm of possibility. 

“My sons have been surrounded by horses their whole lives,” Lita supplied. “In this family, we learn to ride before we can walk!” 

Athos smiled politely. "My apologies, _Madame_." It did explain a few things, namely Aramis’ skill with horses and the childrens’ ease around the animals. “So, there is no possible way he could have fallen to his death?” 

“It was his horse, Memoir, that alerted us that something was wrong,” Margie replied. “The stirrups were intact and...and we--” she stopped, unable to voice the rest. 

“...there were finger marks around my son's throat,” the old woman finished for her, knobby fingers beckoning her granddaughter to join her, welcoming the distraught woman into the tight circle they had formed around Aramis. “Some bastard murdered my Patrice, and all that August and his wife care about is that no one steals the business from them!” 

Margie sighed, rising to her feet and smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her skirts. “You must be tired from your ride,” she offered, her voice laced with tears. “Come, let's get you all settled so you can rest, maybe wash some of that dust from your faces and chang--” 

“Margie,” Aramis called, stopping her frantic speech. When she paused and finally looked at him, he spoke quietly. “I wish to see Father.”

 

 

The last time Aramis had seen Patrice d'Herblay, the man's face had been red with anger and he had looked twice as large as he really was, standing over his son as Aramis held his bleeding head. 

Aramis had expected to feel some rush of sentiment as he gazed upon his dead father, but with his mind assuring him that the senior d'Herblay and the feeble silhouette lying on the bed were not the same person, he felt absolutely nothing. 

It was hard to associate that violent image with the small, thin man lying on the bed. In lifeless repose, his father lay with his hands crossed over his chest and a cloth of the finest embroidery covering his face. 

That was not his father, Aramis was certain. Even as he carefully removed the cloth from the corpse's face and gazed upon the wax-pale skin and closed, sunken eyes, he could not relate to the dead man. Not when that still face was missing the energy and tenacity that he had always recognized. 

Aramis' eyes were drawn to the man's neck. Even under the fine-laced shirt collar, it was easy to see the deep bruises covering his skin. 

He had to agree with Margie and the others. It was impossible to believe that such injuries had been caused by any horse, unless it was an odd breed that had come to possess digits.

 

 

D'Artagnan needed only to follow the familiar sounds to find his way to their horses. As he had imagined, the wooden structure near the main house served as the stable and from what he could hear, it was as every bit as busy and filled as the garrison stables. 

After opening the doors, he let out a low, appreciative whistle. There were individual stalls on each side of the structure--ten on each side by his count-- and each had , at least ten on each side that he could see, and most of them had an animal's head peeking out. 

Despite the large number, the place smelled only of clean straw and horse sweat, the latter probably due to their tired mounts. 

“Like what you see?” 

Whirling in surprise, not used to being caught so off-guard, d'Artagnan found himself looking at a younger, softer version of Selina. “Forgive me, _Madame_ ,” he started, slightly bowing. After what he had witnessed between Aramis and his aunt, he was taking no chances. “I was looking fo--” 

“For a pleasant time in the arms of a willing woman, perhaps?” she offered with a flutter of her eyelashes, invading his personal space. “My, aren't you a tall, lean piece of sin...” she purred, her hands looping around his weapons' belt and sliding down. 

The last woman who had been so forthcoming with him had left him in bed with a bloody dagger and a murdered man in the next room. The Gascon had learned his lesson. He raised his hands to her shoulders, politely pushing her away. 

“Get away from her, you pig!” a man's voice blared, quickly followed by the ominous sound of two weapons cocking. 

D'Artagnan lifted his hands on instinct, slowly sneaking a look over his shoulder to glimpse his adversary. _Adversaries_ , he swiftly amended inside his head. Two men, one tall and wiry, with grey in his hair and a rotund one, going bald, both holding pistols aimed at him. “Monsieurs, I'm sure this is some sort of mista--” 

“The only mistake here was when you and your friends decided to venture onto our lands,” the younger man pointed out. 

“No,” d'Artagnan responded, realizing what the confusion was. These men, after all, had not seen him arrive with Aramis. “We are with Aramis,” he explained. “We're part of the same regiment.” 

“Don't know no ‘Aramis’,” the older man said, rolling the unfamiliar name over his lips. “Around these parts, we hang thieves and liars alike.” 

The Gascon mentally kicked himself for his lack of foresight. “René,” he rushed to amend. “We know him as Aramis, but to you he is René d'Herblay...we came for his father's burial.” 

The men exchanged a look. “You mean the bastard?” the older one asked. “I thought he was dead.” 

D'Artagnan frowned, curbing his anger. It was no wonder that Aramis had no wish to return home, not with relatives that gave no thought to the offensive words they used against him. 

“ _Papa_ ! Bernard! Put those away!” the woman demanded, appalled by their actions. “Honestly, _Papa_ , you're worse than _Maman_ ,” she added with a huff, turning her back and leaving, clearly not interested in the outcome of the confrontation. 

“I merely wish to see to our horses,” d'Artagnan pointed out tersely. The men, he noticed, had yet to lower their pistols. 

“You lot all staying at the house?” the older man asked, nose curling like he had smelled something foul. 

“Until the burial, yes,” d’Artagnan explained. It had been an honest and sincere offer from Aramis' sister, and he was not going to renounce it in front of two ill-mannered men who had yet to introduce themselves. “Perhaps you should consider not pointing a weapon at a guest under your roof?” he suggested, hands itching to reach for his own weapon. Staring down the barrel of a pistol had that effect on him. 

Reluctantly, the men stowed their weapons away, eyeing him with contempt. “If you're anything like René,” the older one spat, making his way out, “Patrice would've shot you himself. You, and that bastard son of his.” 

 

The sun had long set when the others came to join Aramis in his vigil by his father's side. He had sunk into one of the chairs against the wall, fingers carding through his hair in a quiet and compulsive way. 

“I suppose,” he started, eyes fixed on the floor as the others filtered in, “a few explanations are in order.” 

“Forget explanations,” Porthos replied, pulling the bandana off his head and using it to wipe the sweat from his neck. “I need a bloody map to sort out everybody's names and their relation to you!” 

“You owe us nothing,” Athos pointed out, more sedately. “Least of all explanations about your family.” 

“Your aunt, though...” Porthos let out a low whistle. “I wonder if she's related to the Cardinal...the two seem to have quite a few ideas in common.” 

The comment sent a shiver down Aramis' spine. “She and Olive, my father's wife, were sisters,” he explained. “Despite the fact that my father was yet unmarried when I was conceived, Selina always saw me as nothing more than living proof of his betrayal of her sister. She never forgave him for that,” he went on, closing his eyes. “And she never forgave me for her sister's death a few years after I came to live here...said my presence broke Olive's heart.” 

“Nonsense!” Porthos said without pause. “She is just a bitter woman who sees you as an easy target for her poison.” 

Aramis just shrugged. He had spent his entire childhood being called a bastard and having people look at him sideways wherever they went. The words eventually started to roll off like summer rain when they were spoken by his aunt, but he would not stand for her mistreatment of his brothers and his Captain. 

After Olive's death, Selina had made sure he never forgot that, despite being the oldest and the only male offspring of Patrice, he was still a bastard and therefore would never be able to claim the family lands and business as his own. 

Now, it seemed, her fears that he had returned to do exactly that was all-too-obvious. And, in doing so, she was ignoring the bigger issue present. 

“You believe what they say, about your father?” Treville inquired. 

Aramis nodded quietly, unbuttoning his doublet. He felt like he could hardly breathe inside the heavy leather. “You can see for yourselves th-the marks,” he pointed out, embarrassed at the stumbled words. “His neck was broken by human hands, not a fall.” 

“Any idea who might have wanted to see him dead?” 

Before Aramis could answer, the door opened, d'Artagnan's angry face looming behind. In his hands were two of the bottles of wine they kept in their saddlebags. 

“Don't know about that,” he let out, dropping heavily to the floor and sitting cross-legged. “But I can name a few who want to see _you_ dead,” he warned. At Aramis’ questioning look, he shrugged. “They didn't actually give me their names, but the younger one was Bernard and the older man was thin, head full of grey hair.” 

“August is – was -- my father's brother and, incidentally, Selina's husband. Two sisters marrying two brothers is not uncommon in these parts,” Aramis supplied with a shrug at the surprise in the others' eyes. “I know no Bernard...he must've arrived after my time.” 

“Charming fellows,“ d'Artagnan assured him. “Threatened to fill me with lead because I was trespassing on _their_ lands,” he explained, making it clear how much credit he gave to both their actions and their claims. 

“You aunt _does_ have a point,” Treville pointed out thoughtfully. “With your father's passing, ownership of the lands and business falls onto his eldest son... you, not your uncle.” 

Aramis shook his head. “I don't want any of it, never did,” he said, grabbing the bottle that d'Artagnan thrust his way and taking a long gulp. “Besides, August _was_ his brother and Patrice never married my mother. I am, in the eyes of law and church, a bastard.”

 

 

The place actually reminded him of the place he had been born, in the quietness of southern France, Trois Villes. 

His father had owned a small vineyard as well, and the smell was bringing up more memories than what Treville had imagined when he had decided to accompany his men. While Porthos had gone in search of something to eat, and Athos and d'Artagnan were keeping company with Aramis, the Captain had not been able to resist taking a walk through the grape arbors. 

“I imagine it's not common practice for a Captain to escort his men when a relative of theirs dies.” 

Treville, surprised to have been caught off-guard, turned to face Aramis' sister, Margie. She was holding a basket filled with fresh, ripe grapes. 

“It will be a long night,” she explained with a shrug. “Food helps.” 

Treville nodded, as he was more than familiar with wakes. When King Louis's father had passed, the wake had lasted a full week. As the former King's trusted man, the Captain had stood nearby, guarding his remains for most of it. “Has Ar— _René_ ever told how the two of us met?” he asked, realizing that some explanation might be in order for his reason to be here. 

At the woman's quiet shake of her head, Treville went on. “I was in charge of one of the regiments of His Majesty's troops at the Íle de Ré, one of the bloodiest battles I have ever been a part of,” he started, his heart heavy has he remembered the number of good men they had lost that day.

“Was René there?” Margie asked, her face contorted in worry, despite the fact that they both knew the man to be inside the house, alive and safe. “Was he one of your men then?” 

“He was, although not under my command,” Treville said. “I was wounded, surrounded by three enemies, away from the rest of my men, nothing but cannon blasts surrounding me. Death was certain and all that I had left was to commend my life to God and ask forgiveness for my sins,” he went on, closing his eyes. He could see it even now, years past, as clearly as the day it happened. “When the first one fell dead at my feet, seemingly struck down by an invisible force, I was certain that it could only be a miracle, for none of our troops were close enough to aid me. Only when the second fell did I glimpse the silhouette of my rescuer.” 

“René?” Margie guessed with a smile upon her lips. 

Treville contemplated how much to tell her, unwilling to shatter the romantic notion she was certainly picturing of Aramis' daring rescue. The reality had been grimy and bloody, with Aramis collapsing under the strain of his own injuries before Treville could dispatch the third enemy and race to his savior's side. “He stood almost a hundred yards away, and still had managed one of the most accurate shots I had ever seen in my career as a soldier, not only once, but twice,” he finally continued, his tone filled with pride. “When the Musketeers' regiment was founded, shortly after that, your brother was one of the first soldiers I sought out.” 

“So, you came because he once saved your life,” Margie surmised, resuming picking grapes. 

“You misunderstand my meaning, Madame,” Treville politely corrected. He was not there to repay any debt owed to the younger man. “I came because I feel privileged to have the best marksman in all of France and a very fine soldier such as your brother under my command,” he pointed out. “To stand by his side at this time is an honor, as it would be for any of his Musketeer brothers.” 

She nodded in understanding, a sad smile spreading across her tired face. “I just wish Father had listened when René tried to explain that to him.” 

Treville nodded, remembering all-too-well the young man's dramatic arrival back at the garrison, after the last time he had visited his family, tumbling from his horse and landing senseless in the training yard. Even though he could not say it, that had been the main reason why he had accompanied his Musketeer this time around. “I gather that Monsieur d'Herblay was not the most enthusiastic of souls when it came to soldiering?” he asked politely. 

Margie actually chuckled, a melodic sound that seemed to fit her more than the melancholy look they had seen thus far. “That is a kind way to put it,” she let out in between laughs. “He thought that René had chosen the life of a soldier just to spite him, to shame him in front of the whole village.” 

“Why would he think that?” 

“René was supposed to be a priest, did you know that?” Margie asked in return, receiving a nod. “Don't know where Father got that idea, not with my brother's passion for women, but still...he tried.” 

Treville let out an exasperated sigh. How many times had he seen the young man get into trouble because of his excess of 'passion for women'? “And instead of saving them, your brother decided to spend his life sending souls to the Great Beyond.”

 “And keeping some from joining it as well,” Margie reminded with a smile. “Come...we should join the others,” she beckoned, lacing her arm around the Captain's elbow. “And perhaps you can grace us with a few more tales of our René's adventures.”

 

 

Porthos tiptoed into the kitchen, aware of how much noise the old boards made under his weight. 

Only the children and the old lady were asleep, the rest of the family being gathered in the old man's room, keeping vigil for the dead. 

The tall Musketeer had no patience for such rites. There was no watching over the dead in the Court of Miracles, other than to make sure nobody robbed the dead of their clothing until some bit of ground to place the bodies in was found. Often, there was none to be had for the poor, only the common graves outside the city walls. 

His mother had ended up in one of those. 

“You hungry, too?” 

The voice was barely a whisper, but in the dead silence of the quiet house, in the middle of the night, it made a booming sound. 

Even in the gloom, it was easy to identify the owner as Aramis' grandmother, her petite frame nearly bent at the waist. “I beg your pardon, _Madame_ ,” he offered, suddenly feeling like a thief in the night. “Didn't mean to intru—” 

“ _¡Tonteria!_ Friends of my sweet René aren't intruders! Besides,” she said with a wink, “...wakes are dreadful things for the living and do absolutely nothing for the dead, but I am the only one who can say it because I'm old and everyone believes me to be out of my wits,” she went on, beckoning for Porthos to join her at the table. “ _Queso_?” she asked, offering a large piece of cheese. 

Porthos smiled at the old lady's candor. Short as their acquaintance had been, he could already guess that she was a remarkable woman. “Thank you,” he accepted with a nod, taking a seat by her side. “Also, I believe it's you we have to thank for all the times Aramis starts mumblin’ curses in Spanish,” he added with a smile. 

The old woman returned his smile, her wrinkled face opening like a curtain. “I have lived in France most of my adult life, but my heart remains Spanish,” she confessed. “René was always a quick learner so, I could not help myself...he was such a shy little boy when he arrived here...” 

The tall Musketeer couldn't help the sonorous laugh that escaped his lips, shame immediately following as he remembered the wake just two doors away. Still, the idea of a shy Aramis was the funniest thing he had heard in a while. “I'm sorry, _Madame_ , but the word ‘shy’ in regards to your grandson is not something we hear often...” he explained. 

She laughed as well. “Yes, I imagine not,” she agreed. “D'Herblay men were always very... passionate.” 

Porthos shifted in his chair, reaching for more cheese. He was pretty sure the old lady was no longer talking about her grandson, not with that amount of longing in her voice. 

“He had learned to keep away from strangers,” the woman went on, taking a jug of wine and pouring some for both of them. “His mother had taught him that, for his protection, I believe. It was for the best, given that dreadful place he grew up.” 

“So...” Porthos started, then bit his lip, not wanting to overstep his boundaries. “Everybody knew about Ara-- René's mother’s... occupation?” 

“That she was a whore?” the old woman said, no trace of malice or judgment in her words. 

Porthos nearly choked on the piece of bread in his mouth. “Yeah... that,” he confirmed. It had taken a very drunken night for his friend to open up about the first years of his life; it was nothing short of odd to hear it mentioned in such a casual manner. 

“ _Claro que si_...Patrice told me the whole truth when he brought René home,” she replied. “My sons gave me three beautiful granddaughters, but René was the only boy, my only grandson...and I could see so much of my late husband in him....” 

“That why you keep confusing the two?” Porthos asked with a smirk. 

The woman paused, her ancient face unreadable. “You are a military man, _Monsieur_ ,” she went on. “Certainly you have heard of the sack of Antwerp, some 50 years ago? _La Furia Española,_ as it was called at the time,” she asked, carefully sipping her wine. 

Porthos shuddered. He had heard tales of that event; bloody, horrible tales. More than seven thousand lives lost in a cruel incursion that could only be labeled as a massacre. 

“Bonifacius was a Captain in the Spanish army,” the old woman revealed, pausing to gauge Porthos' reaction. He imagined that, given the constant bickering between the two nations, she was quite used to people disliking that. “He abandoned the army after being ordered to kill so many innocent souls, wanting nothing more to do with the Spanish King,” she confessed, leaning back against her chair, her eyes poised on the Musketeer at her table. “To Spain, he might've been a deserter and traitor, but Bonifacius remained an honored man and a soldier his entire life. It was something that was a part of him, as much as a leg or an arm.” 

“And you saw the same in Aramis,” Porthos concluded, understanding why the woman was telling him such story. 

“I did,” she confirmed with a nod. “He had the same fire, the same wild, untamable spirit as my late husband...well, some of it he got from his mother too, I'm sure,” she added with a wink.

 “You were the only one who knew? About his mother?” 

“No,” ' _Lita_ whispered. “My son could not hide something like that from his wife, he was too honorable for that...and then I imagine Olive told her sister, because soon after it was no longer a secret in this house,” she added with a hint of sadness. “It certainly did not make things easier for René.” 

“I'm sorry to hear about that,” Porthos said. There was an intense feeling of protectiveness that rose in him, even though these events had happened years before he had even met Aramis. Still, the thought of a shy little boy, taken from his mother and plunged into a house where not all welcomed him was not an image that set right with him. He put the food aside, his appetite suddenly deserting him. 

He had always felt a special connection with the marksman, ever since the first day their paths had crossed at the garrison's training grounds. When Aramis had told him about his similar humble origins, Porthos had figured that was the reason behind their uncanny kinship. Now, he could see that the similarities went much further. 

“No need to get all distraught,” the old woman admonished as she noticed his reaction. “He was loved and cherished, you know? As best as we could, anyway...everything else, he would just shrug it off and carry on as if it were nothing to him.” 

Porthos smiled. “Yeah...still does that,” he confessed. Not many people were able to see the real Aramis under the mask he had created to protect himself — apparently since a tender age — but Porthos and the others were some of the few privileged enough to see the truly caring and sensitive man underneath. It was both a blessing and a curse. 

“What about your family?” the old lady questioned. “I can tell by your reaction that yours was not an easy childhood either. Do they still live?” 

Porthos smiled politely. His family was not something that he was fond of discussing, but this sweet old lady had chosen to share a bit of his friend's past with him, trusting him to keep Aramis' heart safe. He could, at least, return the favor. “My mother died when I was a small boy. She was the only family I ever knew...until I found the Musketeers,” he confessed, downing his cup. 

The feel of soft hands, fragile and yet strong, wrapping around his fingers, took Porthos by surprise. He looked up, finding the woman's eyes shining with understanding and resolve. For a moment, he thought that the mention of his dead mother had made the poor woman think about her dead son, being watched over by the rest of the family and he felt guilty. “I'm sor—” 

“I am glad my little René found you,” she said, trapping his gaze with her dark eyes. “And that you have found him.” 

Porthos smiled gently, emotion threatening to turn his eyes as shiny as hers. She was right...all of them, lost souls, had been very lucky to have found each other. “To fortuitous encounters!” he said, raising his glass. 

She smiled in return, touching her cup to his. “To the family we collect through life!”

 

 

They held the burial at sunrise, as it was customary in that region. 

Aramis could still remember being pulled from his bed in what had felt like the middle of the night, to be present at his grandfather's burial. Bonifacius had died less than a month after his arrival, felled by a weak heart. 

At the time, he had been merely a frightened child, scared of the cold gravestones in the misty grounds of the cemetery, clinging to his sister's hands like that contact was the only thing preventing the dead from snatching him away. 

When Olive, his father's wife, had passed on a couple of years later, Aramis had not been invited to be present. 

He was not invited to carry his father's coffin, either. Bernard, who he had learned was the husband of Selina's daughter, August and two of the stable hands had each grabbed one handle and placed the wooden box on the cart that would carry it to the chapel in the village. 

Despite his sister's quiet indignation, Aramis was glad to be excused of such a task. It would be hypocritical of him, not when he had barely planned to attend at all. He followed behind the cart, with the rest of the family and his Musketeers family, his head held high despite the growing feeling of wanting to be anywhere else. 

For someone who had grown used to Paris' cathedrals and numerous churches, the village's small chapel felt oppressive and cramped, smaller than the King's private chapel on the palace grounds. And everyone had shown up to pay their respects. 

Despite not having a drop of noble blood in their veins, the d'Herblays were one of the most prominent families in the region, known for breeding fine horses and the old man's brandy. The presence of every neighbor and acquaintance of the family's patriarch was expected. 

The grounds behind the town's church had not changed much, other than the expanding number of graves. 

Over the hills that surrounded Herblay, the sun had already risen, even if its rays had yet to spill over the ridge, washing everything in a pale and feeble light that made everyone look like gaunt spirits. 

It suited Aramis’ mood. 

The priest's voice sounded distant and hollow, speaking of the glory of Heaven's rewards and the resurrection of the dead on Earth, a speech he had already listened to more times than he could count, so that the words had somewhat lost their meaning. 

It was the shadows, moving at a distance at the base of the hills that caught his attention, making him tense for reasons he could not define. 

“Do you wish to leave?” Athos whispered at his side. “I have yet to taste your family's excellent brandy... I believe now—” 

“That tree, behind the grave with the square stone,” Aramis whispered back, his eyes never wavering. “And over there, by the third cross on the left,” he went on, knowing that he needed no more to make his brothers aware that there was something wrong. 

Athos fiddled with the hat in his hands, covertly checking the places the marksman had mentioned. “By the church as well,” he added, “and two more by the western fence.” 

Aramis nodded, quietly elbowing Porthos. 

“Yeah...I see 'em,” the tall man mumbled under his breath. “Don't suppose they're here to pay their respects?” 

It was a whimsical hope that not even Porthos truly believed. Whoever those people were, they were trying to pass unnoticed, quietly —effectively— surrounding the group gathered around the fresh grave. 

Aramis tensed, swiftly counting heads and despairing. Despite the fact that he and the others had attended the funeral in their full Musketeer regalia and were, therefore, armed and ready, the rest were not. Most were old men, women and children. They would not stand a chance to protect them all from harm. 

“We need to get these people out of here,” Treville muttered at his back, his words sending a shiver up Aramis’ spine. The Captain, it would seem, was of the same opinion. “Spread out,” he hissed. 

It was easier said than done. Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan moved like shadows, but they could not go very far without attracting attention to themselves. Aramis and the Captain stayed by the d'Herblays, hands poised over their pistols. 

A lonely pistol shot echoed across the valley, the surrounding hills making it sound like the blast of ten cannons. “No one moves!” 

The barked order allied with the loud, offensive sound of the weapon discharging, had been enough to set most of the young ones crying. Their mothers, too frightened to move, desperately covered the children's mouths, hoping to quiet them. 

Aramis looked at the others, noticing that none had managed to go very far. They stood amidst the crowd, unnoticed and ready to strike. 

Their attackers, however, were taking no chances. They stood just out of reach, most holding pitchforks, hammers and axes, a few carrying swords. The group, while large, was not composed of the usual mercenaries or hired soldiers that one would expect. If anything, Aramis figured these were local farmers. 

A single man carried a brace of pistols, one in his hand, the other, already spent, tucked at his waist. Upon seeing him Margie tensed, her whole body rigid with a constrained urgency to move. 

“Who is that?” Aramis whispered, barely moving his lips. 

“Gustaf.” 

The word was nothing more than a snarl, but it conveyed perfectly the hatred his sister felt for the man. The neighbor she believed responsible for their father's death. 

“My business is with the d'Herblays and their associates alone,” the man – Gustaf -- blared. “Everyone else can go. Now!” 

The villagers needed no further incentive. It wasn't their battle and, when escape was freely offered, they rushed out of the graveyard to save their lives. 

An axe flew through the air, neatly hitting someone's back with a sickening, wet sound. The man, one of the stable workers who had helped carry the coffin, fell without a sound, dead even before his head cracked open against a gravestone. 

“Associates means employees as well, you daft idiot,” Gustaf pointed out, climbing on top of the tallest grave so his cruel gaze could skim the rest of the gathered people. He seemed almost eager to spot someone else willing to defy his command. 

In a matter of seconds, the only ones standing amongst the graves were Aramis' family, the rest of their workers and the Musketeers.

Aramis looked around, searching for a way out, for an option that would not end in a bloodbath. 

His younger sister and Lita stood close to each other, arms entwined, seeking comfort, both shaking like leaves. Selina and her husband stood to one side, cold stares daring the attackers to harm them, as if their gaze alone had the power to protect them. Beatrice and Bernard were holding hands, two young boys of similar features, children that Aramis had yet to meet, held closely against them; and beside him, Margie, standing tall and defiant, even as she tried to shield all three of her children with her diminutive body. One of the farm helpers, a tall man with reddish hair, kept looking at them with a troubled expression on his face, making Aramis realize that he was looking at Pierre, his sister's husband. 

“Now,” Gustaf went on, his eyes falling on the armed Musketeers. “Surrender your weapons and get on your knees, gentlemen, or the number of dead in these grounds will rapidly rise.” 

“How dare you come here and disrespect my father's burial?” Margie said, anger surpassing her control. 

“Weapons, now!” Gustaf hissed, ignoring her heated words, pointing his pistol at her instead. The message was quite clear. 

Left with no other choice, Aramis removed his weapons’ belt, the others following his lead. Even if they had no pistols that they could see, there were simply too many of Gustaf's men for them to manage to shoot them all before someone was hurt or killed. They stood helplessly, as the men went about collecting their swords and pistols. 

“You murdered my father,” Margie snarled, no trace of doubt in her words or fear in her eyes. 

Gustaf smiled down at her in a condescending way. “Actually, I didn't have the pleasure,” he pointed out matter-of-factly. “But I am here to finish the job of ridding these lands of any d'Herblays left,” he went on, gazing cruelly at the people at his mercy. “Behave properly and my men will make it swift. Behave poorly and...” A smirk graced his lips as he gazed upon the young girls, jumping down from the grave. “Let's just say that we'll be staying here for a very long time...” 

Aramis exchanged a look with Athos. They had to do something, or else none of them was going to leave the graveyard alive. The swordsman directed his gaze towards Gustaf. 

The leader was the only one with a loaded pistol. If all of them attacked at the same time, he would only be able to fire once. One of them would die, but the rest would stand a chance to fight their way out, even with the hindrance of having to navigate the tall gravestones. If they were lucky, most of Aramis' family would make it as well. If not, they would at least die fighting. 

Athos looked pointedly at d'Artagnan, the young man giving a small nod as he understood easily their only option. 

Aramis gave Porthos a sideways glance, the tall man smirking at the prospect of showing these idiots the consequences of cornering the King's Musketeers. 

Margie caught his eye, realizing that they were planning something. Her hands, resting by her skirts, moved ever so slightly, reveling what she was hiding between the folds. 

The marksman managed to school his features not to react to the pistol peeking from her pocket. He raised his eyes to meet hers, urging her not to use it. While she, unlike them, stood unguarded and free to take aim, Aramis had no idea what her skill with a pistol was. But, even if she was one of the best, it would be a nearly impossible shot. 

Gustaf was standing in between the graves, savoring his certain victory as he kept them waiting for the order to be killed. From where they stood, Aramis and Margie could see nothing but the left side of his face. The target was too small and the odds of him turning his head or moving ever so slightly... 

Margie, however, had no intention of shooting. With the barest of movements, she slipped the pistol out and pressed it against Aramis' hand. 

“Kill them!” Gustaf finally ordered, his smile widening at the prospect. “Leave no one alive!" 

There was no time to think, or warn the others of the change of plan. In one swift move, Aramis raised the pistol and, taking the barest moment to aim, fired. The smoke and poor light worked to obscure his sight, making it impossible for him to see if his shot hit its target or not. 

Even before the sound had a chance to dissipate, chaos erupted. 

Porthos, guarded by two men, each holding a pitchfork, turned briskly, one hand diving for the weapon in one of the men's hands and swiftly pushing the sharp prongs into the other man's chest. Each bore a look of utter surprise, as one found himself fighting to breathe through the blood filling his lungs and the other found himself weaponless, facing a very angry Musketeer. Porthos snarled in the survivor's direction, sending the man running for his life, not turning back. 

D'Artagnan dodged the axe flying in his direction as soon as the shot sound. The man standing guard behind him, however, was not as nimble in his reflexes, staggering back in bewilderment as he looked down at the weapon sticking out from his shoulder. The Gascon, in the face of an offered weapon, wasted no time. 

With a sickening sucking sound, he pulled the axe free from the man's flesh and charged the other three close to his location. If it hadn't been clear before that these men were not trained soldiers, the fact that one of them dropped his sword at the sight and fled as fast as he could, was more than enough to prove the point. D'Artagnan smiled at the remaining two, a predatory smirk that, along with the vision of the bloody axe in his hands was enough to send them both racing after their companion. 

Athos was less lucky. Both the men nearest to him were actually in a disposition to fight and armed with swords and a chain. 

In a long-practiced move, the swordsman unclasped his cloak and used the sturdy cloth to evade the attack from the man on his left, twirling him around and grabbing him from behind, just in time to use the poor man as a human shield when his second opponent charged. 

Aramis had but exchanged a quick look with Treville, delegating the older man with the responsibility to escort his family away and keepi them safe, before he darted towards the place where Gustaf had been merely a moment before. 

He found the man crumpled between two head stones, part of his face missing. Aramis shuddered, not so much due to the violence of the image, but because of how little it made him feel. 

Maybe his father had been right about him. He was in the business of death and he was perhaps too good at what he did. 

Dispassionately, Aramis picked up the pistol from the dead man's lax fingers, turning around in search of a target. Most of Gustaf's men were running, very few possessing the desire to lay down their lives for the sake of a dead man, not when their hope of payment had most certainly died with him. 

He lowered the weapon with a sigh, eyes falling on his father's coffin. 

“Aramis!” 

“René!” 

“Look out!” 

The multiple shouts arrived almost at the same time as the pain hit, blunt and all-encompassing, absorbing every other sense or feelings. Distantly, Aramis heard the faint reverberation of a pistol shot, skipping across the valley.

Listlessly, he looked at the pistol in his hand, unfired. His mind, rather than dealing with the stabbing pain that had taken over his entire left side, was busy trying to figure out where the third pistol had come from. 

Gustaf had fired one, the second was in Aramis' hands...had they missed a firearm on one of Gustaf's men? 

His knees folded, hitting the dirt with a heavy thud, but Aramis barely noticed. He fell, unconsciously turning on his side to protect the source of the agony. His vision dimming at the edges, his gaze landed on his father's casket. 

“There, Father,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Now I am home.”

 

 

Athos knew that he should have savored their victory so soon. Gustaf was dead, and as soon as his men realized that important fact, most lost their willingness to fight, those who even had it in the first place. 

At his feet laid one of the men, leaking blood from his stomach, tears running from his eyes. For a moment, the former Comte wondered how willing those men had been when Gustaf had dragged them into that graveyard to fight his battle. 

Over land. 

It was not the first time, nor would it be the last, that lives were lost over something as unimportant as 'land'. 

_'You are dust, and to dust you shall return.'_

The priest had uttered those words only moments past, ironically foreseeing what was to come. You are dust and to dust you shall return...and nowhere does it say that you own any of it.

Temporary possession, at most, was not worth the bloodshed that people committed for a piece of _dust_.

Athos wiped his brow. The sun, finally peeking over the hills, had been beating down on them for some time, its heat unnoticed in the furnace of battle. He looked around, assuring himself that the others were unscathed. 

Porthos and d'Artagnan had busied themselves gathering the remainder of Gustaf's men, those still breathing anyway, and reclaiming their weapons. 

The Captain stood by the cemetery gate, trying to keep Aramis' family away from the chaos and not being very successful at it. 

One member of the d'Herblays, however, stood alone. 

Athos could not recall his name in the midst of so many relatives, but from d'Artagnan's description, he knew him to be Selina's husband. For a moment, the Musketeer assumed that the older man, unaccustomed to such violence, stood frozen, fear preventing him from either moving or realizing that it was over. 

He was moving to render assistance when he saw the old man raise a pistol of his own. For a split-second, Athos stood petrified, telling himself that his eyes were deceiving him, that there was some hidden enemy in the man's line of sight that Athos himself could not glimpse. 

But the only one in the path of that pistol was Aramis. 

“Aramis!” he roared, racing towards the shooter. He would be too late, his burning legs told him. He would not be able to stop him fr--

The pistol blast nearly took his hearing, but Athos did not stop. From the corner of his eye he could see Aramis recoil and fall to his knees, leaving no question that the projectile had hit its target. With a fury born out of helplessness, Athos collided with the older man, sending the spent pistol flying. He grabbed the man by the collar of his jacket, yanking him up. “You bastard! Why?” 

For the second time in too-few minutes, Athos found himself looking at a man whose face was washed in tears. Only now, rather than tears of pain, he could see that these were caused by hatred and failure. “This was no business of yours,” the man snarled. “You would have done well staying out of it!” 

“You murdered Aramis' father,” Athos realized all of a sudden, looking into the deranged eyes. In his heart, he knew he was right. “Your own brother... Why?” 

The man grinned widely, a show of yellow teeth that made Athos recoil in disgust. His thoughts could not help but turn to his dead brother, Thomas, wondering if, had he lived longer, would there ever have risen a situation that would make him turn a weapon on his own kin.  

Sickened at such a display of dishonor and base values, Athos punched the man with every ounce of strength in his arm. The resulting thud and sound of breaking bone was not nearly enough to assuage his anger. 

He let the man fall, knowing that he wouldn't regain his senses in the near future, and made his way to the place where he had seen Aramis fall. There was no haste in his steps, and given the choice, he would rather run away than close that distance and find the worst. 

“Does he live?” he found himself asking. 

He could see nothing of his brother other than his left boot, the rest of him shielded by Porthos, d'Artagnan, Treville, Margie and Aramis' younger sister. The children, Athos could see, had stayed at the gate. Of Selina, he saw no trace, making him vaguely wonder if she was aware of her husband's plans. 

Before anyone could reply to his question, Athos had an answer in the form of a pained gasp. He had never been more grateful for the sound. 

“Is there a physician in this village?” Treville asked, already taking charge. 

Margie looked up, her face pale and wet from tears. There was a smear of blood on her cheek that she seemed completely unaware of. “We have Monsieur Aubert,” she volunteered, biting her lip. “He has a barber shop on the main street; we usually go to him when there's a tooth needing pulling or a bone set.” 

Athos exchanged a look with Porthos over her head. They both knew Aramis’ opinion about men who used the same knife to operate and shave beards. Unfortunately, the only one of them who could offer an alternative to the village's surgeon was currently senseless, bleeding into the graveyard dirt. 

“Very well,” Treville voiced, decidedly as uncomfortable with the option as they felt. “We need to take him there, before he bleeds out.” 

In the end, the same cart that had carried Aramis' father to the graveyard, carried his son away from it. The irony was not lost on Athos.

 

 

Aramis woke to the feel of thick wool inside his head, like someone had opened up his skull, scooped out his brains and replaced them with an armful of heavy, soggy, cloth. 

As soon as he tried to take a deep breath, the wool between his ears wasted no time in reminding him of what had happened and why his left shoulder felt like the feeding ground of hungry, wild dogs. “Who the hell shot me?” he rasped, the words perhaps less coherent and fluid than he had imagined inside his head. 

“Tha's your first question?” Porthos muttered, the words tired, even if amused. “No ' _what day is it?_ ' or ' _why do I keep placin’ myself in danger like a damn fool?_ '” 

Aramis opened his eyes to find himself in his father's room, lying on the bed Patrice had recently exchanged for a hole in the ground. Porthos was sitting by his side, arms crossed over his chest and a nasty bruise decorating his left eye. 

“What he means to say,” Athos cut in, his voice coming from the opposite side, “is that we're glad to see you finally awake and that it was August who shot you.” 

“August?” Aramis echoed, certain that his ears were playing a trick on him. “An accident?” he ventured hopefully, refusing to believe that, despite the conflict between them, the man would stoop so low as to shoot a family member in the back. 

“A shameful action from a man without honor,” Athos supplied, barely-contained anger in his tone. “You need not worry about him; he has been dealt with and will face the consequences of his deeds.” 

Aramis struggled to sit up on the bed. There had been something in Athos' words that spawned a bitter feeling of unease, one he could not deal with lying on his back, helpless. However, his one working arm proved useless to propel him up and he found himself fumbling against the mattress with a hiss of pain. 

Strong hands wrapped themselves around his chest, silently offering help. “Thank you,” Aramis whispered, resting against his pillows with a sigh. 

Porthos merely grunted, fussing with the blanket covering his friend's lap. 

“What happened to your eye?” Aramis found himself asking. He was quite sure that the battle had been over by the time he had been shot and could not recall any of the others having received any sort of injury. “Was it during the fight?” 

“No...that was me,” Athos confessed, not sounding one bit regretful. “Porthos needed some... _persuasion_ to avoid murder charges,” he explained with a mischievous smile. Aramis looked at him, utterly confused. “He found the local... medicine man—” 

“Butcher,” Porthos amended. 

“...holding his knife against your arm with a bucket ready on the floor,” Athos went on, throwing a warning look at the tall man. “While I shared the sentiment, I could not allow Porthos to keep beating the poor man...not after he lost his senses...” 

Aramis shuddered at the thought, silently thanking his friends. For the life of him, the marksman could not understand the logic behind stealing more blood from someone who had already lost more than his share due to injury. Nine times out of ten, it served only to ensure the wounded's early departure. 

“Yeah, I guess that would have been ungentlemanly,” Porthos conceded. “Given that he wasn't all that bad at removin’ the ball and all...” 

“And his stitching was almost good enough to rival Aramis'” Athos added. 

The wounded man smiled at his friends' light moods, gingerly poking at the bandages swaddling his left shoulder. While painful, it did not felt inflamed or heated. Despite his poor choice in bleeding his patients, the man had done well. 

Suddenly, Aramis realized what had troubled him about Athos' recount of August's actions. He had mention deeds...as in more than one. “What else was August accused of...besides trying to kill me?” 

The innocent question had the same effect of a cannon ball at close range, shattering everything in its path. Aramis searched his mind, trying to come up with a reason for such a reaction, but could find none. 

D'Artagnan had complained about his encounter with August in the barn, but other than that and a few ill-meant words, his uncle had never come across to him as a man capable of cold-blooded murder. 

“He hasn't spoken since he tried to kill you but….” Porthos started, looking everywhere but at his friend and brother. “But Gustaf's men, the ones too injured to run from us, they talked a lot,” he snarled, making it clear who had made them talk. “They were partners, the two of them. Gustaf planned to join your father's land to his own, making himself a lord, while August would remain in charge of the business, making himself rich,” he explained, disgusted with every word. 

“We believe he was responsible for your father's death,” Athos said bluntly, earning himself a warning look from Porthos. “When I accused him of such, he hardly seemed surprised or offended by the idea.” 

The world spun around Aramis, making him grab at the blanket like it was his horse's reins. It did not help. 

All of sudden, it was as if the reality of the situation came crashing upon him, now that he could put a face to the man behind his father's death. Suddenly, it was real. 

The marksman’s breath hitched inside his chest and, with a sense of shame he had never felt in the presence of his brothers, he found himself fighting not to sob like a child. 

His father had been murdered by his own brother. He was **dead**. 

There would never be a chance to speak with him again, to be in his presence, to look at his face and see color in his cheeks, the flush of life running through his veins...and Aramis could never tell his father that he was right, after all. Like dear Uncle August, he too was a killer. Apparently, it was something that ran in the family. 

“Breathe, Aramis.” 

Porthos' voice rumbled inside his chest, making Aramis realize that his friend was holding him close to his heart. The tears he could feel finally bursting from his eyes had no chance to fall, as they quickly soaked his friend's shirt. 

“Told you we should've waited,” the tall man muttered, the words directed to the other side of the bed. 

“I apologize for the bluntness,” Athos said, his hand running calming circles around the marksman’s back. “But I believe it is his right to know.” 

“Yeah, but not after he’s been out of his wits for over a day!” 

When he felt that his sorrow would no longer embarrass him, Aramis pushed away from his friends' comforting touch, angrily swiping at his eyes as if the tears had been a betrayal. 

“I...," Aramis tried to rein in his thoughts. "My apologies for such a display... I—” 

The door banged open, attracting the attention of all three to d'Artagnan's entrance. The young man looked at the tableau on the bed and flushed bright red. “So sorry...I hear shouting,” he said, stumbling over the words. ”I brought food,” he sheepishly added, thrusting the tray in his hands in their direction as a peace offering. 

“How is everyone else?” Aramis finally asked, breaking the awkward silence. “Anyone hurt? Is _Abuelita_ alright?” he went on, concern darkening his face as he remembered her advanced age and what she and the others had just been through. 

“Everyone's safe,” d'Artagnan assured him. “Concerned about you, I would say,” he added with a smirk, nodding towards the amount of food he had been tasked to carry. 

There was fresh-baked bread and butter, carrot cake, cake with raisins, prune cake, fresh fruit and grape jelly. 

The d'Herblay women apparently, when worried, cooked. A lot. 

Aramis looked at the display, his face contorting in confusion. These people, who he had not seen for nearly ten years and who knew very little about what type of person he was, had just witnessed him shoot a man dead. 

It mattered not that the man had turned out to be his father's killer, nor that he was threatening to kill them all. The man's head had been torn apart by Aramis’ shot, a gory image even for those used to such things. 

For someone as unaccustomed to violence as his sister and the rest of his family, Aramis was well aware what the sight of taking someone's life in such manner, on purpose, looked like. It was harsh and cruel, bloody and vile...and that was the image, he supposed, he now represented to his family. 

The image of a killer, as his father had always thought. “When do they wish us to leave?” he asked somberly, swinging his legs aside to get out of the bed. 

Athos and Porthos traded a look, with the bigger man going as far as reaching for Aramis' forehead before stopping his feeble attempts and trapping him in place. 

“What _are_ you talkin’ about?” 

Aramis stared at Porthos, a battle of wills that he soon lost, resigning to lean back against his pillows. “I killed a man...I have killed dozens of men in my life, but now that they've seen it, surely they are disgusted at my presence in this house…” 

“You certain he doesn't have a fever?” d'Artagnan asked, ignoring Aramis' reasons and turning to Porthos instead. 

“No, I do not have a fever!” Aramis exploded. “Have you all taken leave of your wits? Did you not see what I did at that funeral, what that man looked like after my handiwork?” he asked in disgust. “How do you expect these people to bear my presence under their roof after seeing me for what...” He faltered, his voice growing weak under the weight of his grief. “... seeing me for what I am?” 

The others were stunned into silence. Aramis could not stand to look at their faces and see the agreement in their expressions, even as, surely, they searched for arguments against his reasoning. 

There were none. They were in the business of killing and, despite their vows of honor and service to the King and France, it was still an ugly business that disgusted normal, decent people. 

“Good God above! Have your brains completely leaked through that hole in your shoulder?” Margie's voice came from the door, her irate figure quickly following. 

Aramis tensed, flinching when the movement disturbed the temporary peace of his throbbing shoulder. The anger he had expected; it was the words he could not understand. 

“I—” 

“Shut up,” she ordered, raising her finger to silence him, as if he were one of her children. “Do you think us withering flowers that will crumble to pieces if they see a little blood?” 

She paused, staring at him, which made Aramis realize that she was actually expecting an answer. “No...” he ventured. From the corner of his eye he could see the grins on the faces of at least d'Artagnan and Porthos, enjoying this far too much. 

“Damn right we are not!” she said heatedly, closing the distance between them. “And do you not realize what you and your friends did in the graveyard?” Her face flushed with anger. 

Aramis stood his ground, mostly because he hadn’t much room to escape, in bed and flanked on both sides by his fellow Musketeers. As it was, he was certain that, like Constance, his sister had a habit of slapping stupid men. “We risked your lives and exposed you all to the ugliest kind of violence?” he offered, because truly, there was no pretty colors that he could use to mask the ugly truth. 

Margie growled in a very un-ladylike manner, her hands closing into fists. “There it is...the d'Herblay stubbornnes and stupidity,” she spat. “You are truly your Father's son. You're just like him, you know? You get something in your head and all of a sudden it becomes the absolute truth, no matter what really happened, no matter it doesn't match reality at all!”

Aramis flinched at the profound hurt hidden beneath her words. There were tears running down her face but he felt unworthy of wiping them away, of offering her comfort. 

“Margie...” 

“You and your friends saved my children's lives!” she cried out. “You saved my husband, our sister's life, ' _Lita'_ s life, everyone,” Margie went on, her anger quickly depleted as she voiced all that could have been lost on that day. “You saved your whole family and yet you assume that we would feel anything other than gratitude for what you did!” 

Aramis was stunned into silence. For some reason, his mind had solemnly focused on all the wrong that had been done, completely losing track of the good that had resulted from it. 

Margie was right. He was trying to look at things through his father’s eyes, forgetting that, at least when it came to soldiering, the man had been utterly wrong. 

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, lowering his head in contrition. “I have not been myself these past days,” he confessed. 

The feeling of nimble fingers carding through his hair startled him, making him look up. At some point, the others lad left him alone with his sister and she had taken Porthos' place by the bed. 

Margie had inherited their father's eyes, a soft grey that became deeply blue in anger...or deep sadness. They were blue now, wet and gazing at him like he was the one breaking. 

“I miss him too,” she told him, a sad smile curling her lips. “Despite his shortcomings and mistakes, he was a good man.” 

Aramis nodded, more out of politeness than agreement. There was a loose thread on the blanket that he could not stop fidgeting with, wanting nothing more than to yank the thing clear. 

“He missed you too,” Margie went on, ignoring the way Aramis' breath hitched at her words. “I could see it in his eyes, every time I called out for my son, every time he heard your name.” Her smile widened and her eyes grew distant, as if she could see his expressions before her now. “It was only his stubbornness that stopped him from making peace with you while he still had the time. Because he knew, René... he knew that you, too, are a good man.” 

Aramis barely noticed the tears running down his face until his sister reached over to brush them away. He leaned into the touch, giving his feelings freedom in a manner he felt uneasy to allow in the presence of the others. “I wish...” he tried, undecided on what he wished most, for there were so many things that he wanted to see set right. “...I wish he still was here.” 

“So do I, brother,” Margie agreed, holding him closer, her tears joining his. “So do I.”

 

 

The Captain left for Paris the following morning, unable to justified his absence any longer, now that the Herblay 'fort' had been visited and the troops inspected. With him, he took the prisoner August and a Musketeer escort, to make sure that the murderer was presented before the magistrate. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that August d'Herblay would be facing the noose before week's end. 

Treville left with express orders for Aramis to not even think about getting on a horse before a week had passed, a measure that everyone, including Aramis, was more than in agreement with. 

While the marksman disliked the idea of not being able to ride, he was enjoying reconnecting with his blood family, while enjoying the company of his current one. Despite the reasons that had led him here and the tragedy that had almost occurred, he was happy to be amongst all his loved ones. 

Unlike all the other times when he had been away from Paris and boredom had settled in quickly, here he felt at peace. Content. 

“Will you teach me how to shoot, Uncle René?” 

Aramis, who had been basking in the sun like a lazy cat -- Porthos' words, not his -- opened his eyes and looked down into the eager face of his nephew. While little René seemed to have been nominated as an ambassador-of-sorts to seek his permission, the marksman could see the rest of the children, his two nieces and two young second-cousins, waiting just as eagerly for his consent as a teacher. 

“And has your mother agreed to such a dangerous endeavor?” he asked solemnly, easily guessing that no, Margie had no idea what her children were up to. 

René-Patrice paused for barely a moment, before nodding emphatically. 

Aramis curbed his smile at the boy's innocence. “To lie is a sin,” he reminded. “Are you certain your mother has agreed to this?” 

The boy's resolved crumbled at the mention of incurring God's wrath, as well as his mother's, when she discovered his lie. “But I want to learn how to shoot like you! How else am I going to be a hero when I grow up?” 

Aramis' smile faded, his father's voice coming back to haunt him. The d'Herblays were not killers, they were creators, breeders of beautiful animals. 

And yet here it was, the next generation of his family, wanting nothing more than a life of adventure and thirsty to learn their way around violence and weapons. 

“Being a hero is not about being able to hit impossible targets,” Aramis stated, hoping to correct the boy's wrongful view of the world. “It's about making the right choices and looking after the ones you love, making sure that they're happy.” 

“Like that time you pretended to shoot a bad man, so he would tell where the other bad men were and d'Artagnan could avenge his father?” Amelie asked, the rest of the children having decided to come closer to aid the little boy. 

Aramis smirked at the question. He was glad to see Luc and David, August's grandsons, amongst the group, their parents having claimed no part in the deeds of the older man and having decided to stay, despite the circumstances. “Porthos talks too much,” he replied, certain that the big man had not wasted his chance to regale Aramis' family with some of their adventures. The children, certainly supposed to be in bed at the late time those tales had been shared, had most obviously been eavesdropping. “Yes, like that,” he agreed. “You can also be a hero by being exemplary in your conduct, by upholding the law and honor in all matters. 

“What about making others happy?” Luc, the youngest son of Beatrice and Bernard asked shyly. The poor boy had seen his grandfather being carried away by soldiers not two days before and of his grandmother there was no news. Aramis imagined that his view of the world had been quite shaken by the knowledge that the people you love can also be bad persons. 

“That...” Aramis announced, a wide smile spreading across his lips. “That I can teach you. Follow me,” he added, carefully getting to his feet and walking to a small lodging at the back of the main house. 

He had not entered his father's distillery since he had left home in search of Isabella. And yet, it all looked the same. 

The ceiling felt perhaps a bit shorter, or maybe he was taller now than he’d been then, and the door seemed narrower, but the smell, the cold feeling of the copper container and tubes under his fingertips, those were all the same. 

“Grandfather's distillery?” René-Patrice asked, face filled with confusion. “How does that make others happy?” 

Aramis turned, looking at all the bottles that had gathered upon the shelves over the years. “Because this is where the d'Herblays create something that makes people very happy,” he announced with a smile. “Or at least, a way to forget their sorrows for long enough to experience happiness.” 

“Oi! I know the answer to this one,” Porthos offered cheekily from the steps, clearly having followed them. Behind him stood Athos and d'Artagnan. 

They exchanged a look amongst each other before looking at a smiling Aramis. 

“Brandy!” they said as one, breaking into laughter. 

The children, having tasted the beverage on rare occasions and having found it foul, were left very confused.

 

 

Athos stood patiently, catching a word here and there as Aramis talked with his grandmother, the two of them whispering quietly in Spanish. It sounded like she thought him to be Bonifacius again, but this time, Aramis did nothing to try and correct her, merely holding her close and kissing her forehead gently as they parted.

 Family ties were the hardest to break, especially when they had been re-forged so recently. 

The others were waiting outside to say their own goodbyes, a long line of d'Herblays that had spent an entire week cajoling and trying to keep René with them. 

And René had truly seemed to belong there, caring for and training the horses, teaching the children how to work the still and make the sweetest honey-brandy, tending to the grounds and vineyards. It was a peaceful life that had appealed even to men raised in the capital, like himself and Porthos and one that d'Artagnan had embraced as if he had never left his own farm. 

They could all be happy there, one day. 

For now, though, France still needed Aramis more than it needed René, and the rest of the Musketeers were more than happy to keep him safe until the time came for him to return to his roots. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	5. For Liberty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prison without bars, a group of thieves with the upper hand, far too much rope and a bawdy sense of humor, leave the Inseparables more inseparable than they ever have been.

Athos sighed. His breath kicked up a tuft of dark curls belonging to Aramis, a sharp reminder of the ridiculous natures of their present circumstance.

The marksman, vaguely clothed and unconscious, hung between Athos and Porthos, his feet barely touching the ground, arms stretched above where his wrists were secured to a hook in a lone beam in the ceiling of their strange little prison cell. Another pass of the rope had Athos grunting as he was shoved even tighter against Aramis’ back, only the solid wall of Porthos, who stood facing him on the other side of Aramis, stopped his movement. A mass of unruly hair lay to one side, affording Athos a direct, if not unnerving, line of sight to Porthos, who stared back at Athos expectantly, ready and waiting for one look, one nod. Any signal at all, and he would follow Athos’ lead wherever it took them.

Leading, however, was the furthest thing from Athos’ mind. Instead, he was solemnly intent on staring daggers at their captors as they scurried about, adding finishing touches and taking great pains in securing them in their new prison. Each of them garnered his most withering gaze and promise of a painful death but must especially the one who’d taken a shine to his shirt earlier and decided to relieve him of it.

One of the thieves finished tightening the ropes around Porthos’ wrists, his high-pitched laughter too hard to be ignored. Another moved in to take the length that remained, of which there was a great deal, and began circling it around the three bound Musketeers. Athos lost count how many times he circled them, but the ropes were getting tighter at each pass, effectively shoving them closer together.

“Sorry, gents,” the group's apparent leader said rather apologetically. He rose up on his toes to lean over Porthos’ shoulder and talk close to his ear and make eye contact with Athos, his ridicule evident. “No door on the cell so we has to get… creative.”

Porthos turned to glare over his shoulder at the nearly toothless leader.

Despite the size discrepancies, the thief and his cohorts had seen fit to divest the Musketeers, not only their gear and horses, but of a great number of personal items, one of those being Porthos’ doublet. Slight in size, the thief who'd claimed it, gave a toothless smile and wore it proudly. The sleeves hung long past his hands and the shoulder seams nearly reached his elbows, but that did not deter the toothless loon at all. Proud of his achievement, Toothless strutted and preening about in his new apparel, if for no other reason than to irritate the larger Musketeer some more.

At the sight of his beloved garment, Porthos snarled and dug his feet in, as if to do the thief harm. In the end, the threat proved empty, serving merely to make Toothless and his men laugh harder.

The ownership of the garment was one thing, the helplessness to stop the thief from absconding with it, was quite another. Athos almost pitied the man for neither would bode well for the thief once Porthos got his hands on him. And he would, make no mistake. Perhaps not today or tomorrow but a reckoning was indeed in the future, for him and the other brigands who'd managed a coup the likes of which none had ever achieved.

The men around them peeled with mirth. “They just don’t make prison cells like they used to…” a mousy looking fellow sniggered, the rest adding to the cacophony of embarrassment. Mouse cut quite the figure in Aramis’ doublet and pants. He looked, in a word, ridiculous. The pants were bunched up around the tops of his boots and the long coat nearly dragged across the dirt for the idiot was considerably shorter than Aramis. But that didn’t stop him either.

Soon, though not soon enough, the Musketeers were alone, left to their awkward predicament. They were, quite literally, trussed up together in a dank, empty cellar of some building out in the middle of nowhere.

“I realize you were angry,” Athos began. “But in the future, remember, every move you make, I make as well.”

“Sorry. It’s just that… seeing that toothless prick wearing my jacket and that rat faced shit wearing Aramis’ pants...”

“And my shirt, yes, I know. I am aware. I was there, if you recall.”

“Right…” Porthos gave an attempted shrug that swung Aramis’ body slightly. “Well, now what do we do?”

“Give me a moment to think…”

Athos stood stiffly, trying to put even the smallest distance he could between himself and Aramis’ back. In a nice cozy hug, he’d been made to circle his arms around the marksman’s waist where they were tied, trapping his hands between Aramis and Porthos. Having the benefit of being caught last and possessing the longest arm span, Porthos was only slightly better off. He stood face to face with Aramis, his arms encircling both his friends, and tied behind Athos’ back. 

 

 

Porthos sighed. “I’m going to kill them when we get out of here.”

Athos echoed his sigh. “Yes, making actually _getting out of here_ a rather crucial part, no?"

"Right..." Porthos agreed, his voice flush with determination. "So, how we' doin' this?"

Athos arched one fine brow, but the expression had no effect on Porthos so he shrugged. "I am open to suggestions.”

While Porthos screwed his mouth as if to think on the matter, the swordsman began looking around, finding it necessary to lean back to keep from brushing his nose against Aramis’ hair in order to finish his surveillance of the dark cell. The marksman had been left the worse by the thieves’ sticky hands, in addition to the clubbing to his skull, he had been robbed of his boots and his breeches as well. Apparently, they were just the right size for one of the fellows that had captured them. “And I would much prefer we do so before d’Artagnan finds us.”

From his position, Porthos eyed Aramis, where his arms were stretched high. “Bastards,” he muttered angrily. “That’s gotta be hell on his arms.”

Athos eyed him as well. “Especially the one that is bleeding. I am certain one of them cut his shoulder blade before we were overtaken.”

“We should help him. Get some of that weight off his shoulders.”

Athos brow arched as he looked at Porthos. “Another lovely thought,” he pointed out sarcastically. “We can scarce help ourselves, what makes you think we can help him now?”

Porthos’ brow furrowed. He studied the hook where the rope holding Aramis was looped through, before stepping in even closer, pressing himself against their unmoving friend. The end result made Aramis’ body press even harder against Athos, who glanced up in surprised annoyance.

“What are you doing?”

Porthos tossed a quizzical look at the swordsman. “Move in close, bend at the knees and when I give the word, we press him in between us and lift him as much as we can.”

“You can’t be ser—” Athos ‘oofed’ as Aramis body was once more pressed toward him, the larger Musketeer crouching, waiting for him to comply. “Very well…”

Athos pressed in close and followed suit. Between the two of them, they had Aramis sandwiched tightly. They straightened their knees, lifting him slightly. The marksman’s arms went from straight and locked to looser and considerably less strained.

“And just how long do you think we can keep him suspended between us?” Athos gritted, trying to keep his feet braced. “Our legs will surely fatigue just from standing, let alone supporting him between us.”

Before Porthos could answer a mournful groan filled the room and Aramis shifted between them.

Porthos’ brow furrowed. “I think he’s either enjoying this a bit too much… or he’s coming around.”

Athos rolled his eyes, unwilling to think of the state of nearly undress he and their friend were in. “Must you say it like that?”

Porthos smirked, realizing what he had just said. “What? That he’s coming… around?”

“Yes! No... The other—oh, never mind,” Athos lamented, before shifting his head to somewhere just above their friend’s rear. God, how humiliating. He’d done something terrible to deserve this, certainly. If he could only figure out what that had been, he’d have to atone for it, whichever way that sort of thing worked, anyway. Maybe Aramis could show him…

“Wh-what… where…” Aramis mumbled, twisting between them.

“I cannot hold him up if he continues wiggling about...” Athos huffed.

“Aramis,” Porthos looked up at his friend, trying to capture his unfocused gaze with his eyes alone. “Hey, it’s me. You’re safe.”

“P’rths…?” The injured man’s body stopped twisting abruptly as he froze in place. “Wh-why are you hugging me? Where are my breeches?” he squeaked rather unmanly.

“I’m not huggi— well,” the tall man stopped, analyzing their current predicament. “I am,” he concluded. “Athos is here too.”

“Must you implicate me in this?” Athos growled at Porthos before answering. “Yes. Sadly, I am here as well. Hugging you, it would seem.”

“Why are you both…” Aramis’ asked, trying to worm his way down. He stopped short as the rope tensed and put pressure on his wrists. “...down there?”

“Because our captors have a sick, twisted sense of humor?”

Porthos thought it over a moment, as if to supply a better answer before he shrugged. “That about sums it up, yea.”

“D’Artagnan?”

“Got away,” Athos supplied, a moment later rolling his eyes. “Lucky him…”

“Yeah.” Porthos continued. “I suspect he is gathering a regiment at the garrison to rescue us, even as we speak.”

Aramis went very still, taking stock of his attire and the position they were in. “A res... rescue?”

“Yeah, an encouraging thought, at least.”

Aramis turned his head and tried to catch Athos’ gaze, his eyes every bit as horrified by the prospect as Athos felt.

“Indeed,” Athos offered as he returned the sentiment, arching one brow at the marksman. “I’m encouraged. How about you?”

Aramis snapped his head back around and looked up at the hook where his hands were bound. “We should save them the bother.” He lurched upward in an attempt to get his hands up and over the hook. “I just need to get enough leverage to…” The first attempt failed but determined, he tried again. “Once I’m loose, I’ll c-come down and we’ll be out of here before rescue can arrive.”

“Bloody Christ! Aramis,” Porthos huffed trying to keep his hold on his friend. Athos struggling to do the same on the other side. “Mate, we can’t hold you if you don’t stay stil—”

Aramis lurched once more and it was all Porthos could do to lock his knees and keep his balance. In the end, it was a lost effort. The tight circle they’d made loosened and lost its hold. Aramis slipped back down until he was once more wedged between them, his nose nearly brushing against Porthos’.

Eyes wide with alarm at the invasion of the other man’s personal space, Aramis jerked his head back. It was only Athos’ fast reflexes that saved him from a collision that surely would have given him a bloodied nose. In the end, he still got a mouthful of the mass of black curls that cascaded down the marksman’s head and fell just below his neck.

Spitting petulantly, the swordsman scowled at the dark mess, a vicious look that went completely wasted since no one was able to see it. Taking a deep breath to chastise his friend, he stopped and gave it a second tentative, deliberate whiff.

“Your hair,” Athos sniffed again, only deeper this time. “Is that…melon?” Intrigued beyond sense, he buried his nose in the dark locks and inhaled fully, missing the way Aramis shivered before pulling away. “And apples. Your hair smells of melon and apples, with just a hint of... brandy.”

Aramis huffed. "Well of course it does. Save for the brandy—” he turned stiffly to one side, “—that’s your own breath, I expect. As for the rest, there's this wonderful lady in the market who grinds fruit into a soap, just for me…”

Porthos and Athos smirked.

What?" Aramis looked from the larger man before twisting further to look at Athos out of one corner of his eye. "Doesn’t everyone?"

A loud warbling groan echoed off the cell walls. Aramis looked quickly at Porthos, and Athos leaned to one side to do the same. “Great,” Porthos grumbled. “Now look what you’ve done. All that talk of apples and melons… you’ve made me hungry!”

Athos rolled his eyes. “I mentioned brandy too, but you don’t see me craving… oh, wait," he thought a moment before shaking his head. "Never mind.” The former Comte sighed, deflated. “What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of brandy about now. Then I could at least blame this whole debacle on an addled mind.”

“Blaming those highwaymen is good enough for me.” Porthos growled, eyeing the dried blood on Aramis’ face.

“That makes precisely one of us.” Aramis menaced. “I want my boots back…” he mumbled. “And my clothes…”

“At least they stopped shy of taking your small clothes,” Porthos countered, always one to look on the bright side. Even if there was none. “In this cold, you might’ve shriveled into lady parts,” he couldn’t help but add with a laugh.

“Gentlemen,” Athos interrupted. “Need I remind you of the impending arrival of Musketeers—our _brothers_ —who should be here to rescue us at any moment?”

There was a none-too-subtle threat in Athos’ words that brought Aramis and Porthos back to the issue at hand. All talk of brandy, fruit and lady parts fled their list of immediate concerns in face of the thought of their brothers finding them in such a predicament. Some of the others had, for quite sometime now, taken to calling the three of them ‘The Inseparables’. If -God forbid- they were to be seen in their current circumstances, the irony would be hard to live down.

“Alright,” Aramis winced, glancing up at his arms, even as he managed to slide further down. “We need to—” he choked off the words and stared straight ahead at Porthos. Mere inches separated them and Athos could feel the marksman tense, seemingly reluctant to move, let alone draw breath.

Athos leaned to the right to ascertain the matter and knew the problem immediately. “Porthos?” he called quietly.

“Hmm...?” the taller man said, eyes crossing as he stared down at Aramis’ face.

“Over here,” Athos called him to the side.

Porthos tilted to the left. “What?”

“In as much as it is within your power, a little breathing room...? If you please?”

Porthos looked innocently at Aramis, saw him swallow hard. “Do I have foul breath or something?” he asked, sounding more than a little offended. As Aramis’ chest pressed persistently against his own, understanding dawned. “Oh!” Actual breathing room. His eyes darted around, anywhere but to Aramis. “Uh. Sorry ‘bout that…”

Aramis exhaled in relief. “Where was I?”

“Tied to your best friends, in the middle of a dank prison without bars, about to be discovered by your comrades at arms and mercilessly teased for the remainder of your days.”

“Yes. That about covers it...” Aramis shook his head and Athos leaned back as far as he could, to avoid being whipped about the face. “Sorry…arms hurt. Hard to think.”

“I’m certain,” Athos responded dryly. “Could you also make it hard to toss your head about? I nearly lost an eye at least twice so far and that fruity scent only gets stronger when you move about.” A lock of the marksman’s hair chose that moment to curl out, straight into his nose. _Wonderful_ , Athos thought, contorting his mouth as if that would help.

It didn’t. Nor did the wet sneeze that followed.

“Oy! Hate it when that happens,” Porthos said in all seriousness, clearly following the disturbing events happening on Athos’ face. “Nose itches, don't it? Rub it into his shoulder, that should take care of it.”

“No—” Aramis protested. “Do not—”

Unable to stand it any longer, Athos did precisely that. He darted his head down and crushed the offensive tickle in the surface of Aramis linen shirt. He groaned out loud as relief flooded his head, a feeling akin to drunkenness accompanying it. Almost. Well, not even close to almost. More like… good enough.

“Feels better, right? Told you that'd do it...” Porthos nodded.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Aramis sagged. “The idea of being caught like this is pretty mortifying, but now I’m not so sure this here, right now, isn’t worse.” He glared at no one in particular. “Debased to the level of a simple handkerchief…”

“Just think,” Athos put in, leaning over Aramis’ shoulder to speak directly into his ear, after he blew some of those ridiculously massive curls out of his way—the man really ought to keep his hair trimmed. Possibly shaved close... “Months of taunts and whistles, offers to cuddle and shoulders to cry upon, accused of taking the concept of Inseparable too far… being compared to low hanging fruit...”

Aramis eyes widened in alarm. “On second thought... we need to get out of here, tout suite! Athos,” he turned his head to speak vaguely in his direction, “see if your bindings are at all lose.”

The swordsman’s hands wiggled between Aramis and Porthos, causing the larger man to jerk back, trying to stifle a laugh. Aramis looked at him askance. Athos stopped and tilted to one side to see what the matter was this time.

“What are you doing?” Aramis asked, looking skeptically at his friend.

“Nothing. I—” Porthos swallowed what he wanted to say. “Sorry...” the larger man murmured. “Just keep going.”

Athos resumed his shifting, only to stop short as Porthos burst out laughing.

“Porthos!”

“What?” he shouted back. “I’m ticklish!” He waited a moment, steeling himself for their taunting and when none came, braced his feet. “Alright, try again. I promise I’ll not move.” He threw up a steely gaze, staring right into Aramis’ eyes and held absolutely still. Aramis did likewise, failing to find any sort of humor in their current situation.

Athos rolled his eyes. “Don’t bother. There is no give in these bindings.” He tilted his head at the larger man. “How about you, Porthos?”

“You think I didn’t try that already?” He shook his head. “They ain’t coming apart.”

“No need to get testy,” Aramis admonished.

“Told you I’m hungry. You know how I get.”

“Oh, right.” Aramis twisted towards Athos. “He turns into a bear when he’s hungry,” he whispered, even though Porthos stood, quite literally, glued to him.

"I _can_ hear you, you know," Porthos commented.

Athos felt as if he was slowly losing his mind dealing with those two. “Yes, well, at this point, a bear would be of more use, given that one could chew through these ropes and get us out of here before we are discovered by our friends!”

“He gets testy when he’s sober,” Porthos grumbled. Aramis nodded in agreement.

Athos sighed.

“Fine…” Aramis began again. “What if...” he tilted his head back to look up and Athos yet again narrowly missed being head-butted.

“Aramis!” Athos shouted in frustration.

“Sorry, sorry,” Aramis stilled, looking straight ahead. Porthos slowly tilted to one side for breathing space. “What if I go up, like before.”

“As I recall,” Athos began, “that did not work so well.”

“Yes, but this time, I climb.”

“How so?”

“I wrap my hands around the rope and pull up, just enough to get my foot up on both Porthos’ knee and yours, which will offer the perfect foothold for me to reach Porthos’ shoulders and, hopefully, that blasted hook. Brilliant, no?”

“Can you do that? Climb up, I mean?” Athos leaned back and looked where Aramis hands were bound at the wrist. The skin looked red and angry, his fingers swollen. “You’ve been hanging there an awful long time and you’ve lost some blood.”

“Besides,” Porthos joined in. “What about your arm?”

“Yes,” Aramis winced. “Thank you for reminding me of all that. Can we operate on a little faith here?”

“There’s blood on your left arm," Porthos pointed out, "where those bastards cut you.”

“Bastard,” Aramis corrected. “And yes, thank you for that reminder as well.”

“You’re most welcome,” Porthos replied, with the utmost sincerity.

Athos tilted to make eye contact with the larger man. “Porthos…. are you certain you weren’t hit on the head?”

Porthos thought about it a moment. “Pretty sure.”

“That makes precisely one of us,” Athos repeated Aramis’ earlier words regarding their attackers.

“All good points gentlemen," Aramis cut in. "But unless either of you has a better idea…”

Athos thought a moment then looked to Porthos who shrugged. “I got nothin’.”

“Then it is settled,” Aramis decided. “I must try.”

“Very well.” Athos looked at Porthos, bending his right leg. “Bend your right leg—”

Porthos bent his right—

“No.” Athos slammed his eyes shut. “You’re other right—your left knee.”

“Don’t get mad at me.” Porthos sulked as he lifted his left knee. “Not my fault you can’t tell my right from your left. You certain you weren’t hit in the head?” he offered back, bitterly.

Athos dropped his forehead against Aramis’ back and shook his head. “This is, without question, the worst day of my life,” he moaned, unaware that the added weight of his head put pressure on the marksman’s already taxed arms.

The extra weight swung Aramis forward and Porthos, unprepared, lost his balance momentarily, pulling all three of them backwards. They swung like the pendulum on a church bell, both Athos and Aramis complaining loudly at being tossed about.

“Enough!” the larger man growled, using his body to stop the marksman’s nearly uncontrolled swing and squeeze Athos into submission. “Quit your moaning and be about the business of getting us out of here, ey?”

“Yes.” Aramis whispered painfully. “Please… we’ll never get out of here if we don’t get to it, and besides, the pull on my arms is growing very uncomfortable.”

Porthos lifted his knee, pressing Athos’ into doing the same. The right right knee this time around. “There, footholds’ are in place… now, get your foot up here.”

Aramis tried a few times but the last downward shift on his arms had sapped all his strength to pull upward. He sagged ever so slightly, taking advantage of the fact that Porthos’ massive chest was right there, offering a place to rest.

“Having a wee nap, are we?” Porthos pushed, his voice holding a kindness to it that robbed those words of their sting. “Perhaps after we’re out of here?”

Aramis nodded against the linen of his black shirt. “Yes… after,” he agreed. “A nice, long, warm nap…”

Porthos looked over the mass of dark curls to Athos frowning face. “We need to wedge him between us to lift him again, then I’ll give him my knee.”

Athos arched a fine eyebrow. At the moment, Aramis seemed unfit to take two steps forward in the same direction, much less climb over them and onto a rope to get them free. “Fine,” he eventually agreed, crouching as best as he could. “On three…”

In a repeat of the same movement they had done before, the two Musketeers moved as one, pressing Aramis in between them. Athos was forced to shift his legs back in order to keep Porthos from knocking him off his feet.

Relief proved to be an instant balm as Aramis sighed and opened his eyes. “Thank you, mes amis!”

“Much as we share a tremendous feeling of joy at your lack of suffering,” Athos gritted, trying to keep Aramis up between them, “...perhaps we can get on with it before this precarious hold collapses on itself and we have to do it all over again?

“Yes, yes,” Aramis looked up at the rope where it looped over the hook, trying to gage how high he’d need to climb in order to gain enough slack to secure his freedom. “Now if I could just get my foot…”

Athos felt him shift clumsily, reaching behind to place one knee over the swordsman knee. He closed his eyes to concentrate on keeping still and his balance properly seated when Aramis’ weight shifted dramatically, until his other socked foot came down perfectly on the Porthos’ knee. Well, more the thigh area but it was enough to distribute his weight some…

Aramis immediately lifted his other foot, looking for another foothold. Weakness from blood loss seemed to be playing a greater factor and the single point of leverage proved unworkable. “I need to get my other foot... somewhere,” he strained.

Athos looked across at Porthos, who was doing much of the work in taking Aramis’ weight upon himself. The man couldn’t very well lift both feet and Athos was too short and in no physical position to offer better. He had, however, a brilliant idea.

“His belt buckle,” the swordsman suggested. “See if you can get your other foot… more in the center.”

“Yes,” Aramis huffed, his eyes trained once more upward on the hook overhead, “… that should help.”

Athos felt him shift yet again. He closed his eyes to concentrate on keeping his balance as Aramis bent his leg, foot moving incautiously between them, searching for the protruding object of their discussion, a singular key to their success and possible liberation. And impending mortification at the arrival of their brothers.

One could not forget the mortification part. It was important.

The foot glanced off Athos’ hands where they were tied in front of him, but he made no complaint, determined not to express his own discomfort.

“Ah!” Aramis gave a triumphant hiss as he shifted his entire body upward and locked out his knees to stand straight. “Got it!”

Athos sighed at the back of Aramis’ knees. The air was quite chilly, but even without the protection of a shirt, he could feel sweat tracing down lines across his back. He smiled at Aramis’ enthusiasm over having achieved such a small task, which in their current situation, was not so miniscule.

Porthos’ rather verbal lack of enthusiasm became a distressed whimper, followed quickly by a pained grunt. The noise held something akin to agony, and something else entirely that seemed impossible to define.

Aramis gazed down at Porthos, while Athos tried to glance in between Aramis’ legs. they could see Porthos’ brow wrinkled and the grim set of his mouth, rows of white teeth gritted tightly together.

“Oh,” Aramis paused, trying to look further than Porthos’ face. In such close quarters, all he could see where tight curls and his friend’s closed lids “Am I hurting you?”

The big man let out a breath, long and careful. “In a manner of speaking," he whispered, his eyes beseeching. “The place your foot is currently squashing… not my belt buckle!"

Athos stared at him in confusion, then tried to follow the line of Aramis’ leg, only to find it impossible to get the proper angle to see his foot placement. “Then where…?”

Porthos glared at the swordsman through the gap in Aramis’ legs. “You really want me to spell it out for you?

“Hang on,” Aramis interrupted and started to wiggle. “I’ll just move my foot—”

“No!” Athos ordered and Aramis stilled. “You’re too weak to balance on one foot.”

“Athos…” Porthos hissed, eyes wide, tears pooling at the corners. “He really, really should try…”

Athos glared back at him as he continued but spoke to both of them. “Do that and you’ll only succeed in falling again and I do not want to start this over.”

Porthos stilled, whimpering again. “That’s my future children you’re trampling on...can you please keep your damn foot still?”

“Sorry…” Aramis offered plaintively. “Just trying to help.”

“Well, it’s not helping!”

“Enough, both of you!” Athos snapped. The dilemma was clearly putting some strain on their efforts to keep a level head and escape. The swordsman flexed his fingers to test his range of motion and began feeling blindly about. “Just… let me find where…”

Something large bumped his palm. Porthos squeaked and the swordsman knew immediately where he’d stopped. Not Aramis’ foot.

Refusing to make eye contact with the larger man, he whispered, “Bear with me…”

“Easy for you to say…”

“I am at least in the right vicinity,” Athos reminded forcefully.

Instead of answering, Porthos slammed his eyes closed and suffered his fondling in silence. Athos moved his hands up and found something of soft wool. He grabbed hold and squeezed. “Is that your foot?”

Aramis giggled but kept still, the difficulty of it reflected in his clenched jaw. “Oh, Dios… that tickles,” he explained quite vexed.

Athos muttered under his breath, leaning his forehead to rest against the back of Aramis’ legs, the heat of his own embarrassment ripping up and down his face. “I’ve got my hands under your heel,” he braced, widening his stance. “Shift back, slowly and I will take your weight partially in my hands.”

The deal was done, success measured in Porthos exhale of relief and Aramis quiet prayer of thanksgiving, along with Athos determination to not drop his friend and thus restarting this entire mess from the beginning.

“Gentleman,” he ground out, huffing against the weight and Aramis’ attempts to balance between the two of them. “I prefer to celebrate after we are free of this insanity.”

Porthos was having his own difficult standing on one foot, the other still raised to offer a foothold for Aramis. “Now what, though?” He looked up at Aramis then back at Athos. “I’m fresh out of… belt buckles.”

“If…” Aramis seemed nearly hesitant to offer any suggestion that might rile the bigger man. “If I could get my foot from Athos’ hand onto your shoulder…”

And rightly so for Porthos glared up at Aramis. “If you miss…”

Aramis pressed his lips together. “I won’t miss,” he said haughtily.

“You missed my belt buckle.”

“Smaller target.”

Porthos glowered up at him. “Oy! Watch what you call a small!”

Aramis smirked back and opened his mouth to reply—

“I have some mobility,” Athos offered quickly, eager to move this along before things got physical…er, more physical. He did not want to imagine what a fist-fight in this position would look like. A wiggling worm, perhaps. “I can help raise his foot, get him closer.” Porthos glared back at him next. “Well, we can’t just stand here all day, like a circus number.”

“And as much as I wish I could lift myself up the rest of the way with just my arms, I lack the strength at the moment.”

“Fine…” the larger musketeer relented but tossed a quick glance heavenward. “Just … please, God, don’t let him miss...”

“Once I start lifting,” Athos offered, looking up at the back of Aramis’ legs and finding no other support point other than the round cheeks of his rear. God… the things he did for his brothers... “I’ll get my shoulder under your… backside... and shove.”

Aramis gave a quick nod and Athos lifted, then... shoved. Aramis’ foot had made it all the way to Porthos’ chest when the larger man lost his balance and his raised leg came crashing down. Aramis flailed abortively at the sudden loss of support, at which Athos overcompensated and pushed from behind, sending him forward. In the end, the marksman landed, both knees on Porthos’ shoulders, the other man's face inches from his… belt buckle.

D’Artagnan came charging in through the opened door. His sword was drawn, waving in the air, threatening anyone who dared to challenge him. A threat that never materialized as he skittered to a halt, staring at the odd assortment that made up his brothers.

For some reason, one he wasn’t entirely sure he wished to find out, Athos had his head pressing against Aramis’ ass and the marksman, devoid of his breeches, had his knees around Porthos head. The big musketeer stood with his arms around Athos glaring at d’Artagnan.

The younger man stared hard, blinking in the faint hope that at least one dash of his lids would succeed in wiping that vision away. In the meantime, his mouth hung open. “Um…”

"Well,” Porthos snapped, “you going to just stand there? Cut us loose before our captors come."

“Hmm? Oh, no,” D’Artagnan closed the distance, an odd smirk on his face. “I mean, of course.” He reached up with his rapier to slice the ropes on Porthos’ wrists and took a step back to avoid being smacked as Porthos’ arms shot up to get his hands around Aramis, securing the marksman’s balance. “What I meant was,” the Gascon continued as he reached up next to cut the ropes around Aramis’ wrists. “There are no captors. Just me.”

“You fought off all five of them?” Athos asked, incredulously.

“Never mind that…” Aramis added hopefully as he was helped down and finally stood, albeit wobbly, on the cold stone floor. “Did you find my boots?” D’Artagnan looked down and noticed how his toes curled in immediately, making the absence of his footwear all the more prevalent.

“And my doublet?” Porthos chimed in.

D’Artagnan looked questioningly at each of them before pivoting back to Athos. “No, I mean, I came back and the place was deserted,” he confessed, sounding rather embarrassed. “Well except for the three of you… over there, doing…” he flopped a hand out, indicating the space where he’d seen them when he’d first entered, “whatever it was you were...doing.” His brow furrowed, a pained expression on his face. “I have a headache,” he murmured and began rubbing the top of his head.

“So, no…” Athos’ gaze swung to the door before settling back to the younger man. “...regiment?”

“What? No,” D’Artagnan gave a careful shake of his head, his dagger back in his sheath. “I didn’t want to lose track of where they were taking you, so I followed them instead of returning to Paris,” he continued to rub his head.

“Wha’s with your head?” Porthos asked.

“Oh, I hit the door on the way in,” he confessed, a red flush spreading through his cheeks. “Too low… who built this place, anyway? Dwarves?”

The three older Musketeers traded a look amongst them, a silent agreement swiftly taking place.

“Aramis,” Athos called in all seriousness. “Didn’t you once tell me that the mind sometimes plays tricks after receiving a serious blow?”

The marksman looked at him mutely for a moment before his eyes widened. “Oh, I believe I did. Uh huh,” he nodded emphatically. “It definitely has been known to do… you know… that.”

“Makes you see odd things, that does,” Porthos joined in.

“So…” d’Artagnan looked at each of them, “That… peculiar sight I caught upon entering… was just my addled brains, that it?”

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed. “The worse your head aches, the worse the images you see.”

“Think—” Athos corrected quickly, “you see.”

“Right, that’s what I meant,” Porthos continued. “‘cause those weren’t real, not really,” he pressed. “So, since you didn’t really see them—”

“—no point in talking about them,” Aramis interrupted. “You wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself with wild tales of things that never happened, now would you?”

“Oh, of course not,” the young man readily agreed. “Wouldn’t want to ruin any sort of… reputations.”

“Good… glad that’s settled,” Athos looked at Porthos and Aramis, the three of them nodding.

“Me as well because,” d’Artagnan took a deep breath, exhaling, “what I saw...that was… disturbing.” He waived with a slight flourish to the entrance. “Now, if you three want to get out of here, we have a long walk back to Paris ahead of us.”

d’Artagnan turned and strode from the room, a small smile on his face. Before he reached the door, he heard Athos whispering conspiratorially.

"We shall never speak of this again,"

END


End file.
